THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


, 


, 


THE    SLEEPING    WORLD 

AND   OTHER  POEMS 


THE 


SLEEPING    WORLD 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 


BY 


LILLIEN   BLANCHE  FEARING 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG    AND    COMPANY 
1887 


COPYRIGHT 
BY  A.  C.  MCCLURG  AND  Co. 

A.D.    1886. 


PS 


THIS  LITTLE  BOOK  IS  LOVINGLY  INSCRIBED 


tnjj 


3893 


CONTENTS. 


PACK 

THE  SLEEPING  WORLD 9 

HUMAN  LOVE'S  WEAKNESS 15 

A  THOUGHT 18 

THE  HEART  KNOWETH  ITS  OWN  BITTERNESS   ...  20 

PRAISE 29 

WHAT  HAVE  I  DONE? 32 

JESUS  WEPT 34 

To  A  STAR 37 

CLAUDE  AND  ELOISE 39 

MOTHER 49 

WHERE  ART  THOU,  DARLING  ? 53 

LOVE  AND  DOUBT 58 

WHO  COMFORTETH  THE  COMFORTER 62 

FAREWELL 65 

SYMPATHY 68 

ON  THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  A  FRIEND ,    .  70 

A  VISION  OF  LOVE.    .    ,  .82 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  DEAD  HERO 86 

THE  SNOW 89 

THE  SUN 90 

A  STAR 91 

THE  LEGEND  OF  LAKE  MINNEWAUKON 92 

NOTHING  NEW 100 

MY  SOUL 103 

LET  HIM  SLEEP 108 

WORSE  THAN  DEAD IIO 

MY  ANGEL  AND  1 113 


THE  SLEEPING  WORLD. 

T  TOW  sweet  it  is  to  think,  as  poets  tell, 

•*•     That  when  their  universal  night  has  draped 
The  earth  with  gloom,  in  snowy  uniform 
And  shining  armor  clad,  with  sleepless  eyes 
A  heavenly  vanguard  camps  beside  the  world  ! 
I  love  to  keep  this  fancy  in  my  brain, 
And  wonder,  when  the  hovering  night  drops  down 
Noiseless  as  down  the  sky  Apollo's  herd 
Came  driven  by  a  roguish  infant  god,  — 
Noiseless  as  drops  a  bird  of  sable  plumes 
At  rosy  eve  upon  its  downy  nest,  — 
If  some  bright  spirit  might  not  sometime  come 
Who  ne'er  before  had  watched    the    slumbering 

world. 

I  love  to  think  of  him  with  flaky  feet 
Threading  the  mighty  labyrinth  of  stars, 
Amid  the  choral  harmony  of  spheres, 


10  THE  SLEEPING   WORLD, 

Looking  ethereal  darkness  through  and  through 

For  Earth's  pale  light  to  glimmer  on  his  path, 

Till  he  beholds  her  like  a  ship  afloat 

In  the  blue  sea  of  air  that  wraps  her  round ; 

Her  peaceful  young  moon,  like  a  white  sail  spread, 

Letting  its  liquid  pearls  of  light  drop  down 

The  frosty  rigging  to  the  blossoming  deck  ; 

Her  icy  ribs  agleam ;  blue  waves  of  air 

Washing  her  emerald  prow.     "  How  beautiful ! 

Was  aught  in  heaven  more  fair?     Then  why  should 

man 

Come  weary  to  the  everlasting  gates  ?  " 
I  think  of  him  as  piercing  the  soft  air 
Where  clouds  like  sea-birds  lightly  skim  the  blue ; 
I  see  him  resting  on  a  fleecy  bank, 
Bowed  tenderly  above  the  sleeping  world. 

The  Earth  is  sleeping,  deeply,  peacefully ; 
A  silver  sheet  of  moonlight  fringed  with  stars 
Enwraps  her  form,  and  long  dark  shadows  lie 
Like  flowing  tresses  on  her  cheek  and  breast. 
"  How  fair  !  "  the  angel  whispers  as  he  bends. 
"  Oh,  happy  man  !  why  should  God  pity  him, 
Or  angels  weep  for  him  ?    What,  sin  and  grief ! 


THE  SLEEPING   WORLD.  II 

What,  shame  and  tears  !    What  are  these  mournful 

things  ? 
I  see  no  sin  and  grief,  no  shame  and  tears." 

The  Earth  is  sleeping,  deeply,  peacefully. 

The  cloud  stoops  lower ;  nearer  the  angel  bends. 

He  sees  a  sleeping  babe,  as  beautiful 

As  are  the  bright- winged  cherubs  of  the  skies. 

Its  rose-leaf  hands  its  dimpled  bosom  press ; 

Its  golden  lashes  sweep  its  snowy  cheeks ; 

Its  silken  ringlets  from  its  pure  brow  smoothed ; 

A  smile  upon  the  dewy  lips  enthroned, 

As  if  the  light  of  heaven  still  lingered  there. 

"  Peace,  happy  infant,  take  thy  rest  in  love  ! " 

The  angel  whispers  tenderly,  and  smiles. 

A  form  beside  the  rosy  infant  kneels, 

With  heaving  bosom  and  with  quivering  lips. 

Her  feet  have  stumbled,  and  her  limbs  have  failed ; 

Her  breast  grown  chill,  her  arms  refused  their  load. 

The  night  is  damp ;  no  shelter  for  her  babe,  — 

It  matters  not  for  her.     She  strives  to  pray, 

But  only  weeps  instead.     Weep  on,  poor  heart ! 

Weep  on  !  God  often  takes  our  tears  for  prayers. 

"  These  bright  drops,  running  swiftly,  must  be  tears  ! " 

The  watching  angel  whispers  sorrowfully. 


12  THE  SLEEPING    WORLD. 

The  Earth  is  sleeping,  deeply,  peacefully. 

Here  lies  a  youth  in  calm  and  sweet  repose, 

His  dark  locks  from  his  noble  forehead  tossed, 

His  lips  half  parted  by  a  radiant  smile 

Born  of  some  high  ambitious  dream  within. 

"  Peace,  peace,  O  youth ! "    the  angel  says,  and 

smiles. 

In  yonder  shadow  is  a  dark  form  crouched 
Beside  a  pallid  corpse,  —  life  touching  death. 
His  hands  are  reeking  in  the  warm  red  blood 
That  slowly  drips  upon  the  cold  numb  earth, 
And  like  a  crimson  serpent  glides  away. 
No  fear  of  God  is  in  the  hungry  eyes ; 
His  eager  fingers  clutch  a  bag  of  gold. 
Grasp  on,  poor  wretch !   for  death  shall  one  day 

hold 

Thy  withered  heart  with  a  far  stronger  grip. 
"This  dark  presageful  thing  I  see  is  Sin  !  " 
The  watching  angel  whispers  sorrowfully. 

The  Earth  is  sleeping,  deeply,  peacefully. 

Here  is  a  nuptial  feast,  —  a  bride  begemmed 

As  a  June  blossom  is  bedewed  at  morn, 

Husband's  and  lover's  kiss  upon  her  lips. 

"  Peace,  happy  bride  !  "  the  angel  says,  and  smiles. 


THE  SLEEPING    WORLD.  13 

Yonder  a  pale  form  by  a  rushing  stream 

Hides  from  the  light  of  day  and  human  eyes. 

It  bends  one  shuddering  moment  o'er  the  tide ; 

And  then,  without  a  cry  of  penitence, 

Unless  that  gurgling  moan  could  be  a  prayer, 

It  leaps  into  the  dark  devouring  waves. 

Speed  on,  poor  sou],  speed  on  to  meet  thy  God  ! 

He  will  consider  thy  temptation  here, 

And  will  be  merciful.     "This  must  be  Shame  !  " 

The  watching  angel  whispers  sorrowfully. 

The  Earth  is  sleeping,  deeply,  peacefully. 

Two  forms  are  resting  on  the  selfsame  couch ; 

One's  quiet  breathing  tells  of  tranquil  sleep. 

"  Peace,  slumberer  !  "  the  angel  says,  and  smiles. 

The  other  restless  on  his  pillow  turns, 

His  frame  rocked  by  a  whirlwind  of  the  soul ; 

The  sob  that  beats  his  breast  like  prisoned  bird, 

And  must  escape  somehow  or  burst  its  bars, 

Crosses  his  lips  half  smothered  in  its  flight, 

Lest  it  arouse  the  sleeper  at  his  side. 

It  may  have  been  a  low  green  grave  far  off 

In  some  rose-kirtled  glade,  it  may  have  been 

A  grave  within  the  heart,  that  caused  the  storm. 


14  THE  SLEEPING    WORLD. 

Peace,  troubled  heart !  oh,  do  not  be  afraid  ! 

Believe  in  God ;  trust  also  in  his  Son  ! 

"  Grief,  grief ! "  the  angel  whispers  sorrowfully. 

The  more  he  views,  the  more  of  sin  and  grief, 
Of  shame  and  tears,  stand  out  like  cruel  scars 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  lovely  Earth ; 
And  every  smile  seems  balanced  by  a  tear, 
And  every  good  seems  weighed  against  some  ill. 
He  veils  his  bright  face  with  his  wings,  and  weeps. 

The  Earth  is  sleeping,  deeply,  peacefully. 
Its  innocence  and  joy,  its  purity 
And  love,  may  sleep ;  but  ah  !  its  sin  and  grief,  — 
But  ah  !  its  shame  and  tears,  —  unseen,  perhaps, 
But  still  wide-eyed  and  restless,  will  be  warmed 
And  nourished  'neath  the  raven  wing  of  Night. 
Peace,  Earth  !  thou  art  not  drifting  helplessly 
Through  mists  of  Time ;  God's  hand  is  at  thy  helm 
He  knows  thy  chart,  and  keeps  thy  reckoning. 
Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  all  deeply,  peacefully  ! 


HUMAN  LOVE'S   WEAKNESS,  15 


HUMAN   LOVE'S  WEAKNESS. 

\  GAINST  the  forehead  of  the  world 
"^          A  new  sun  hurls  his  trenchant  beams  ; 
The  stars  have  gathered  up  their  light, 
And  wrapped  it  in  a  fold  of  night ; 
The  swan- white  wings  of  Sleep  are  furled 
Above  her  mystic  nest  of  dreams. 

It  seems  all  eve,  or  else  all  dawn ; 
All  light  seems  strangled  in  the  sun  ; 
The  meaning  has  gone  out  of  words, 
The  music  from  the  songs  of  birds  ; 
The  rare  blue  from  the  sky  has  gone, 
Like  bloom  from  flowers  by  frosts  undone. 

All  bloom,  all  melody,  all  glow 
Have  perished  with  the  angel  grace 


1 6  HUMAN  LOVE'S    WEAKNESS. 

That  wreathed  the  brow  of  my  loved  one ; 
As  dews  drunk  by  the  thirsty  sun 
Are  sucked  in  vortices  of  woe 
Whose  vapors  over-mist  God's  face. 

Grief  like  an  aspic  on  me  hung, 

And  sucked  my  heart-blood.     Still  I  rise, 

And  journey  on  my  gloomful  way, 

Though  never  moon  strikes  through  the  gray 

Of  triple-folded  vapors  flung 

Across  the  glory  of  her  eyes. 

Oh  !  human  love  doth  under-run 

And  overrun  all  human  things ; 

When  it  is  crushed,  life  reels  and  swounds, 

And  gaspeth  from  a  hundred  wounds  ; 

Earth  staggers ;  darkness  blinds  the  sun 

As  with  a  multitude  of  wings. 

Love  spins  her  magical  cocoon 
About  our  souls,  —  and  that 's  our  world. 
We  think  the  earth  rocks  when  we  shake ; 
We  think  the  stars  clash  when  we  break, 
On  some  still,  stormless  night  in  June, 
From  love's  frail  leaf  about  us  curled. 


HUMAN  LOVE'S    WEAKNESS.  I ^ 

God,  whet  our  senses  till  they  reach 
Outside  of  Time  for  light  and  sound ; 
Till  down  the  clavier  deep  and  broad 
Of  firmaments  swells  "  God,  God,  God  !  " 
And  our  souls,  circling  heavenward,  teach 
Their  loves  to  soar  above  the  ground  : 

And  though  loved  tones  sink  into  hush, 
Dead  hopes  like  star-dust  strew  the  sod ; 
Though  distant  suns  meet  and  embrace, 
A  system  totter  from  its  place,  — 
We  hear  God's  heart  pant  through  the  rush 
Of  elements,  and  cry,  "  God,  God  ! " 


1 8  A    THOUGHT. 


A  THOUGHT. 

TT  fell  at  night  upon  a  rocking  world 

As  sinks  through  glooms  of  eve  a  falling  star ; 
God  launched  it  upon  Time  with  wings  unfurled, 
And  marked  its  flight  through  centuries  afar. 

As  fell  that  spirit  bright  on  Lemnos  isle ; 

As  Phaeton  fell  from  Phoebus'  blazing  car ; 
As  from  an  angel's  lip  a  holy  smile 

Slides  like  a  sunbeam  from  a  world  afar,  — 

So  on  the  dim  earth  fell  that  shining  thought : 
Like  shooting-star  it  flashed  along  the  brain 

Of  one  who  flushed  to  feel  the  strength  it  brought, 
And  shaped  it  for  a  world's  eternal  gain. 


A    THOUGHT.  19 

On  prophet  brows  the  chrismal  light  falls  stilt ; 

They  break  for  us  through  calyxes  of  doubt, 
Through  leaf-like  thought  o'er-folding  thought,  until 

The  single  golden  heart  of  Truth  shines  out. 

They  catch  a  burning  thought  from  lips  divine, 
And  mould  it  into  shape  for  human  ken ; 

In  picture,  song,  or  sculptured  stone  to  shine, 
A  holy  thing  blest  unto  sentient  men. 


20  THE  HEART'S  BITTERNESS. 


THE  HEART  KNOWETH   ITS  OWN 
BITTERNESS. 

"f  T  7HO  knoweth  what  cold  drops  of  pain 
One  hour  into  my  life  may  rain,  — 

What  poison-cup  my  lips  may  press  ? 
Who  knoweth  of  the  broken  trust  ? 
None  other  felt  the  silent  thrust ; 

The  heart  knows  its  own  bitterness  : 

The  steady  drip,  drip,  on  the  brain 
Of  one  long  agony  of  pain 

That  slowly  wears  the  life  away ; 
Like  water  dropping  on  a  stone, 
Through  the  long  ages  grinding  on, 

Till  stubborn  rock  weds  unto  clay  : 

The  love  that  all  unfaithful  proved ; 
Shame  for  the  shame  of  one  beloved ; 
Dead  hopes  that  drop  from  barren  days, 


THE  HEART'S  BITTERNESS.  21 

Like  fruit  born  in  ungracious  Springs, 
And  falling  ere  the  season  brings 

Its  rounded  cheek  the  flush  of  praise. 

The  heart  knows  how  the  hot  tears  fall,  — 
How  many  are  not  shed  at  all, 

But,  burning,  ever  backward  press, 
Blister  the  soul's  white  cheeks,  and  make 
A  twofold  anguish  for  the  sake 

Of  hiding  the  heart's  bitterness. 

I  see  thee  oft,  pure  silver  ball, 

Roll  noiseless  through  the  shadowy  hall 

Of  Night's  wide  temple,  and  I  cry : 
"  I  feel  a  nearer  kin  with  thee, 
Though  dumbly  thou  beholdest  me, 

O  moon,  than  with  my  kind  !  "     And  I 

Think,  when  the  mute  stars  flash  abroad, 
They  stand  before  the  face  of  God, 

And  He  smiles  through  each  astral  gem  ; 
Each  comes  to  have  a  life  apart, 
A  separate,  beating,  feeling  heart, 

And  mine  beats  out  to  God  through  them. 


22  THE  HEART'S  BITTERNESS. 

I  deem  it  strange  men  sometimes  feel 
With  lifeless  things  and  things  unreal 

A  closer  kin  than  with  their  kind ; 
Into  my  soul  a  star  can  burn 
Its  soulless  being,  till  I  yearn 

To  it  as  to  a  kindred  mind. 

Each  heart  has  its  full-measured  woe 
No  other  heart  can  fully  know ; 

And  yet  methinks  it  would  be  less 
If  more  true  souls  would  but  declare  : 
"  I  grieve  for  you ;  oh,  let  me  share 

A  part  of  your  heart's  bitterness  !  " 

I  met  a  friend  amid  life's  hum  : 

Our  lips  spake,  but  our  hearts  were  dumb ; 

A  sea  of  silence  'tween  them  rolled ; 
Our  palms  touched,  but  our  souls  stood  far 
As  space  dividing  star  from  star, 

Whose  roods  have  never  yet  been  told. 

Hollow  as  wind  through  bleaching  bones, 
Cold  words  slipped  through  unmeaning  tones  : 
He  wished  that  Heaven  would  prosper  me ; 


THE  HEART'S  BITTERNESS.  23 

I  gave  back  dead  words  for  his  dead  : 
He  never  meant  the  thing  he  said ; 
It  had  no  pulse  of  sympathy. 

Our  lives  possess  so  much  of  form, 
So  little  heart  to  keep  it  warm  ! 

We  say  a  thing  because  that  men 
By  saying  oft  have  made  it  seem 
Good  so  to  speak ;  we  do  not  dream 

A  lie  's  a  lie,  no  matter  when. 

He  thought  of  some  new  form  of  pelf 
That  would  enrich  his  dearer  self; 

He  thought  not  of  a  heart's  distress, 
Or,  thinking,  he  to  speak  forbore, 
Because  of  that  calm  smile  I  wore, 

Concealing  my  heart's  bitterness. 

I  say  "  My  friend,"  and  speak  a  lie ; 
He  knows  me  not,  nor  yet  know  I 

One  feature  of  his  spirit  face. 
I  clasp  his  hand  ;  I  say,  "  My  friend  ; " 
I  wish  him  well,  —  and  there  's  an  end  : 

The  words  possess  no  sort  of  grace. 


24  THE  HEART'S  BITTERNESS. 

I  say,  "  My  friend,"  and  blush  for  shame 
That  I  should  brand  the  sacred  name 

(A  dead  flower  set  to  a  green  stem)  ; 
I  call  an  empty  shell  a  pearl ; 
I  hold  it  up  above  life's  whirl, 

And  say,  "  Behold,  a  precious  gem  ! " 

Oh,  hollow  friendship  !    What 's  a  friend  ? 
One  whom  I  greet,  with  whom  I  spend 

An  idle  hour  when  days  are  drear? 
Who  speculates  on  human  game, 
Who  battens  on  his  neighbor's  name, 

And  plagues  me  with  the  fickle  year? 

MY  friend  shall  be  by  slow  time  proved, 
Shall  hold  me  as  himself  beloved, 

Shall  let  me  share  his  heart's  distress ; 
MY  friend  shall  own  that  he  is  dust, 
MY  friend,  —  the  heart  with  whom  I  trust 

A  part  of  my  heart's  bitterness. 

O  brother  men  !  why  stand  apart, 
With  never  touch  of  heart  to  heart, 
Disclaiming  your  great  brotherhood ; 


THE  HEART'S  BITTERNESS.  2$ 

Hiding  the  angel  that  ye  boast, 
Keeping  the  human  uppermost, 
As  if  ye  were  ashamed  of  good? 

Oh,  tell  me  of  the  peace  ye  Ve  known 
Within  the  shadow  of  God's  throne  ! 

How  in  your  grief  was  borne  to  ye 
The  far  faint  breath  of  seraph  wings  ! 
Why  so  much  talk  of  common  things, 

When  souls  are  sick  for  sympathy? 

The  stars,  revolving  in  their  spheres, 
Touch  one  another  through  the  years 

By  laws  which  act  through  subtle  airs ; 
Perhaps  our  souls,  through  circling  days, 
By  natural  laws  of  human  ways, 

Touch  one  another  unawares. 

So,  like  dead  matter  forward  whirled 
Through  heats  that  generate  a  world, 

We  grow  to  our  dead  selves,  and  press 
All  heats  of  sorrow  to  the  core ; 
Fire  at  the  heart,  but  outward  frore, 

Concealing  the  heart's  bitterness. 


26  THE  HEART'S  BITTERNESS. 

Oh,  give  me  of  the  heart's  sweet  wine 
Unmixed  with  passion,  all  divine, 

Pressed  from  the  holy  grapes  of  Love  ! 
Give  me  a  love  so  deep  and  broad, 
It  reaches  to  the  throne  of  God, 

And  hints  a  life  I  know  not  of ! 

Oh,  let  us  have  more  human  faith, 
More  sympathy  of  brain  and  breath  ! 

We  talk  of  faith  that 's  deep  and  broad 
In  God  the  Father ;  we  shall  find 
A  broader  faith  in  human  kind 

Will  give  us  stronger  faith  in  God. 

Hearts  have  so  much  to  bear  at  best ; 
A  little  sympathy  expressed 

In  words  with  heart-dew  all  aglow 
Would  make  less  keen  the  inward  moan 
For  griefs  which  must  be  borne  alone, 

Whose  fulness  but  one  heart  can  know. 

More  soul-exchange  amid  life's  din, 
More  mingling  of  the  lives  within, 
And  Time,  with  all  its  deep  distress, 


THE  HEART'S  BITTERNESS.  27 

Shall  still  a  tuneful  proem  be 
To  God's  sublime  Eternity, 

Where  hearts  forget  their  bitterness. 

O  grand,  mysterious  Beyond, 

Where  hearts  to  kindred  hearts  respond  ! 

Leap  forward,  Soul,  till  it  is  won  ; 
And  there  forget  that  breath  is  pain, 
Forget  the  strife  of  heart  and  brain ; 

Unveil  the  statue  to  the  sun  ! 

O  Life  !    O  secular  sweet  years 
Beyond  this  sea  of  human  tears 

Where  all  the  glebe  of  Time  is  lost, 
When  from  the  limbec  of  earth's  bain 
We  come  more  Christ-like  for  our  pain, 

And  count  that  pain  but  little  cost ! 

For  we  are  angels  bound  in  chains 

Of  bone  and  muscle,  blood  and  brains ; 

'T  is  when  we  bind  the  angel  down, 
Making  it  servant  to  the  flesh, 
Tangling  its  bright  wings  in  the  mesh 

Of  sin,  that  we  displace  our  crown. 


28  THE  HEART'S  BITTERNESS. 

0  Love,  pure,  deep,  and  lily-strown, 
About  the  broad  base  of  God's  throne 

Thy  stainless  waters  ever  press  ! 
Soon,  looking  earthward  from  thy  marge, 

1  shall  behold  with  vision  large 

How  each  heart  bears  its  bitterness. 


PRAISE.  29 


PRAISE. 

~\  T  7HY  doth  a  little  human  praise 

Flush  all  the  forehead  sunsetwise, 
Strike  the  heart's  fire  till  it  betrays 

Itself  by  leaping  to  the  eyes, 
And  shining  through  them  till  they  grow 
Star-lustrous  with  the  inward  glow? 

Why  should  a  little  world-praise  peal 

So  rapturously  across  the  brain, 
When  to  and  fro  men's  judgments  reel 

With  pendulous  throbs  'twixt  wise  and  vain  ? 
Why  ask  we  not  if  angels  raise 
A  silver  shout  of  blame  or  praise  ? 

Earth  makes  such  tumult  in  our  ears,  — 
Scorn  clashed  with  praise,  —  it  often  serves 

To  drown  God's  whisper  through  the  spheres, 
Along  the  soul's  ethereal  nerves 

Borne  softly.     Soul,  couldst  thou  but  know 

The  rapture  thou  art  missing  so  ! 


30  PRAISE. 

If  I  once  wrought  some  Christly  deed, 
Lifted  some  soul  from  deathful  things 

Into  God's  smile,  supplied  the  need 

Of  some  sick  heart,  or  touched  its  strings 

Left  tuneless  by  the  jar  of  pain, 

And  made  them  sweet  and  true  again ; 

Then  if  God's  finger  gently  slid 

The  bolts  of  sense,  and  locked  my  soul 

From  world  approval,  and  amid 
The  inner  silence,  roll  on  roll 

Rushed  angel  harmonies  complete,  — 

His  praise  in  modulations  sweet : 

Oh,  whatsoever  height  of  heights 

My  feet  might  rise  to,  evermore 
Above  the  flickering  shifting  lights 

Of  human  smiles,  above  the  frore 
Of  human  scorn,  my  soul  would  gaze 
Throneward  for  God's  dear  blame  or  praise. 

Though  stars  of  human  power  should  rise, 

Should  blaze,  should  burst,  should  sink  unseen ; 

Though  storms  of  Change  across  the  skies 
Should  sweep  their  fiery  skirts,  —  serene 


PRAISE.  31 

My  soul  could  stand,  and  strong  and  clear, 
Like  God's  own  bugle-blast,  could  hear 

Above  the  deep  discordant  clash 

Of  mortals  judging  mortal  things, 
Above  the  wondrous  silver  crash 

Of  angel  gitterns  swept  by  wings, 
One  grand  note  of  approval  run 
Through  all,  above  all,  —  God's  "Well  done  !" 


32  WHAT  HAVE  I  DONE? 


WHAT  HAVE   I   DONE? 

T  LAY  my  finger  on  Time's  wrist  to  score 

The  forward-surging  moments  as  they  roll ; 
Each  pulse  seems  quicker  than  the  one  before, 

And  lo  !  my  days  pile  up  against  my  soul 
As  clouds  pile  up  against  the  golden  sun  : 
Alas  !  what  have  I  done  ?  what  have  I  done  ? 

I  never  steep  the  rosy  hours  in  sleep, 
Or  hide  my  soul  as  in  a  gloomy  crypt ; 

No  idle  hands  into  my  bosom  creep ; 

And  yet,  as  water-drops  from  house-eaves  drip, 

So,  viewless,  melt  my  days,  and  from  me  run  : 

Alas  !  what  have  I  done  ?  what  have  I  done  ? 

I  have  not  missed  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers, 
Or  scorned  the  music  of  the  flowing  rills 

Whose  numerous  liquid  tongues  sing  to  the  hours ; 
Yet  rise  my  days  behind  me  like  the  hills, 

Unstarred  by  light  of  mighty  triumphs  won  : 

Alas  !  what  have  I  done  ?  what  have  I  done  ? 


WHA  T  HA  VE  I  DONE  ?  33 

Be  still,  my  soul ;   restrain  thy  lips  from  woe ; 

Cease  thy  lament !  for  life  is  but  the  flower ; 
The  fruit  comes  after  death  :  how  canst  thou  know 

The  roundness  of  its  form,  its  grace  and  power? 
Death  is  Life's  morning ;  when  thy  work  's  begun, 
Then  ask  thyself,  What  yet  is  to  be  done  ? 


34  JESUS   WEPT. 


JESUS  WEPT. 

'  I  ^HRICE  wondrous  thing  which  has  of  God  been 
-*•      told, 

To  reach  the  deeps  unmeasured  of  the  soul, 
And  touching  all  its  sorrows  manifold, 

Through  imperfection  bid  perfection  roll ; 
Blest  thought,  which  turns  to  wine  tears  that  have 

crept 
Between  the  weary  eyelids,  —  Jesus  wept. 

To  forge  a  sun,  to  rivet  myriad  stars, 

Through  serried  veins  to  pour  earth's  flashing  rills, 
To  kennel  hungry  seas  in  granite  bars, 

To  whet  the  lightnings  on  the  rock-browed  hills,  — 
Majestic  wonders  !     But  sweet  to  be  kept, 
And  crowning  wonder  of  them  all,  —  God  wept. 


JESUS    WEPT.  35 

Oh,  glorious,  gracious  thought !  that  God  should  feel 
The  edge  of  human  pain.     Oh,  sweet  belief ! 

That  through  His  holy  eyelids  there  should  steal 
Those   warm   soul-droppings,  —  signs   of  human 
grief; 

That  through  His  being  Earth's  cold  anguish  swept 

Like  sweep  of  salt  sea-surges,  —  and  He  wept ! 


Lo  !  our  humanity  has  touched  God's  crown 

As  some  frail  leaf  might  touch  the  bending  spheres  ; 

And  from  the  heights  of  Godship  He  stooped  down 
To  bathe  His  forehead  in  the  brine  of  tears. 

He  lived  and  talked  with  men ;  He  toiled  and  slept : 

But  struck  our  human  key-note  when  He  wept. 


Weep,  anguished  soul !  God  wept  long  years  ago ; 

So  sanctified  thy  tears  forevermore. 
He  hears  the  madrigals  of  human  woe 

Swell  ever  upward  from  Time's  echoing  shore, 
Like  dirge  of  wild  waves  on  a  wild  land  swept, 
As  once  upon  the  earth  He  heard  —  and  wept. 


36  JESUS   WEPT. 

Weep,  burdened  soul  !     Let  fall  thy  tears  like  rain ; 

God  counts  the  drops  in  which  thy  slow  years 

steep ; 
He  gathers  them  like  mountain  dew  again, 

Transformed  to  pearls  which  seraphim  shall  keep 
For  thy  soul's  crowning,  when,  by  grief  unswept, 
It  leans  upon  the  breast  of  Him  that  wept. 


TO  A   STAR.  37 


TO  A  STAR. 

'""T'HOU  beauteous  star  that  lifts  thy  silver  head 

Above  the  dusky  shoulders  of  the  world, 
And  trembles  like  a  drop  of  glory  pearled 
Upon  the  flower  of  darkness,  wide  outspread  ! 

How  many  ages  in  thy  circles  whirled 

Hast  thou  been  reaching  with  thy  beams  of  light, 
Through  sweep  on  sweep  of  starry  spaces  bright, 

And  feeling  for  this  weary,  shuddering  world? 

What  noble  Titans  dwell  in  thy  rare  clime? 

Surely  thou  dost  embower  some  God-like  race  ; 

Oh  !  what  am  I  that  doth  behold  thy  face?  — 
A  speck  of  dust  upon  the  web  of  Time  ! 

Unheeding  Time,  thou  threadest  the  woof  of  spheres, 
All  glowing  from  the  finger-touch  of  God ; 
While  I  must  cleave  unto  this  heap  of  sod, 

A  worm,  with  neither  might  nor  length  of  years. 


38  TO  A   STAR. 

But  hold  !     Knowest  thou  the  wondrous  thing  thou 

art? 

Dost  thou  not  run  through  the  harmonious  theme 
Of  rhythmic  spheres  that  round  thy  pathway  teem, 

Unconscious  of  thine  own  majestic  part? 

Now  serried  thoughts  into  my  bosom  cram, 

And    music  —  I    call    words  —  runs    from    my 

tongue ; 
Lo  !  I  am  like  the  God  from  whom  I  sprung ; 

I  bow  before  the  wondrous  thing  I  am. 

I  know  the  fount  in  which  my  life  begun,  — 

But  thou  knowest  not  the  source  of  all  thy  light ; 
Thou  sweepest  on,  ignipotent  and  bright ; 

Still  through  thy  glorious  circles  blindly  run. 

When  this  wrapped  soul  has  cast  its  fetters  far, 
And,  naked,  leaped  to  heaven's  highest  noon, 
As  bursts  a  bright-winged  moth  from  its  cocoon, 

Lo  !  then  shall  I  transcend  the  brightest  star. 


CLAUDE  AND   ELOISE.  39 


CLAUDE   AND   ELOISE. 

TEN  I  forget  my  story,  as  I  turn  the  great 
world  o'er, 

Like  a  book  of  many  pages  full  of  strange  and  mys 
tic  lore. 

I  forget  my  own  pulse  leaping  swift  the  shuddering 

vein  along, 
And  my  own  heart  wildly  beating  time  to  Life's 

pathetic  song. 

I  forget  vain  hopes  and  longings,  all  the  thrilling 

. 
minor  parts 

Of  my  own  life,  as  I  ponder  o'er  the  tales  of  other 
hearts. 

So,  to-night,  all  self-forgetting,  low  above  the  page 

I  bend, 
And  I  read  the  tender  story  of  thy  early  youth,  my 

friend. 


40  CLAUDE  AND  ELOISE. 

Every  word  is  like  a  heart-beat  as  it  echoes  in  my 

ears, 
And  I  list  the  thrilling  measures  swelling  through  the 

resonant  years. 

As  a  picture  rare,  projected  on  a  dim  and  shaded 

screen, 
I  behold  thy  bright  youth  gleaming  'gainst  life's 

shadowy  unseen ; 

I  remember  well  the  playground,  its  smooth  walks 

and  bending  trees, 
Children  swarming  hither,  thither,  like  the  summer's 

busy  bees. 

Then  we  thought  the  world  a  playground,  where 

men  play  at  hide-and-seek, 
Where  the  race  is  for  the  stronger,  and  the  strong 

protect  the  weak. 

Now  it  seems  a  field  of  battle,  where  great  ends  are 

lost  and  won, 
Where  the  weak  must  fight  the  stronger,  and  the 

strife  is  never  done. 


CLAUDE  AND  ELOISE.  41 

Eyes  like  azure  wells  of  gladness  ;  hair  like  sun-light 

braided  up ; 
Mouth  forever  sweet  and  tender,  like  a  rose's  dewy 

cup; 

Voice  that  broke  in  waves  of  music  on  the  undulating 

breeze, 
Heart  as  pure  as  new-blown  lily,  had  the  gentle 

Eloise. 

Claude,  dark-eyed,  dark-browed,  and  silent,  was  to 

her  in  contrast  drawn 
As  a  shadow  to  a  sunbeam,  and  as  twilight  unto 

dawn. 

They  were  shy  of  one  another,  used  no  pretty  arts 

to  please ; 
'Twas  a  year  and  three  months  over,  ere  Claude 

spoke  to  Eloise. 

Often  through  her  trembling  lashes  she  would  give 

him  one  shy  look, 
And  he  sometimes  gazed  upon  her  when  her  eyes 

were  on  her  book. 


42  CLAUDE  AND  ELOISE. 

There  they  learned  the  selfsame  lessons,  frowned 
the  selfsame  sums  above, 

As  in  after  years  they  puzzled  o'er  the  vexing  prob 
lem,  —  Love. 

Sometimes  they  would  meet  in  passing  on  the  path 
way  to  and  fro, 

When  the  tall  trees  reached  their  green  hands  to  the 
blue  sky  bending  low ; 

When  the  primrose  blushed  and  nodded,  leaning 

from  the  green  hedgerow, 
And  the  meek  white  daisies  glistened  in  the  grass 

like  flakes  of  snow. 

Vines  their  scarlet  berries  sprinkled  like  warm  blood- 
drops  through  the  trees ; 

"  Where,"  thought  Claude,  "  is  fruit  or  flower  half 
so  fair  as  Eloise  ?  " 

Oh,  the  merry,  merry  frolics  of  their  rainless,  shade- 
less  youth, 

When  the  Spring  beat  in  their  pulses,  and  the  earth 
breathed  love  and  truth  ! 


CLAUDE  AND  ELOISE.  43 

Oh,  the  heart's  sweet  Indian  summer,  when  love 

spreads  her  tender  haze  ! 
Oh,  the  dreamy,  misty  splendor  of  those  mellow, 

cloudless  days  ! 

Youthful  passions   often  languish;  all  hearts  have 

their  callow  loves 
Which  they  brood  in  life's  sweet  springtime  like 

the  tender  brooding  doves. 

They  will  take  wing  like  the  young  birds  ere  the 

summer's  bloom  decay ; 
Only  now  and  then  a  nestling  lingers  in  some  heart 

alway. 

But  the  love  of  childhood  strengthened  in  the  heart 

of  Eloise ; 
Much  she  dreamed  of  Claude  in  secret,  though  she 

used  no  arts  to  please. 

Lives  will  broaden  like  the  rivers,  and  in  wider  chan 
nels  pour; 

Swift  our  childhood  glides  behind  us,  like  a  city  on 
a  shore. 


44  CLAUDE  AND  ELOISE. 

Where    the   river   gleamed   and  glistened,   gliding 

'twixt  its  reedy  shores, 
And  its  white  lips  kissed  its  margins  with  a  sound 

like  dripping  oars ; 

Where  the  water  laughed  and  gurgled  in  and  out 

amid  the  trees,  — 
There  with  lingering  feet  at  sunset  wandered  Claude 

and  Eloise. 

Brave  the  man  and  fair  the  maiden,  strong  and  true 

their  young  hearts  beat ; 
Blue  the  east  and  red  the  west  was,  bright  the  water 

at  their  feet. 

Once  he  saw  her  with  another  wander  by  the  sunlit 

tide; 
Cold  as  y£nus'  fount  then  grew  he,  sought  no  more 

the  river  side. 

Chill  grew  she,  and  to  his  greeting  coldly  did  her 

lips  respond ; 
For  the  fond  heart  of  a  woman  is  as  proud  as  it  is 

fond. 


CLAUDE  AND  ELOISE.  45 

Like  a  coat  of  mail  unyielding,  woman's  pride  her 

heart  will  shield ; 
Oh !  a  woman's  pride  will  suffer  all  things,  but  it 

will  not  yield. 

So  they  lived,  and  so  they  parted,  while  the  weary 

years  rolled  on ; 
She  gave  neither  sign  nor  token  that  the  light  of  life 

was  gone. 

And  he  deemed  her  false  and  fickle,  changeful  as 

the  sunset  glow, 
Shallow-hearted,  feeble-passioned,  judged  all  women 

must  be  so. 

Men  are  wise,  —  to  their  own  thinking,  —  wise  in 

reading  women's  souls ; 
But  they  read  them  ill,  like  children  blundering  o'er 

monastic  scrolls. 

Oft  they  say,  "  They  are  the  primers  read  when  life's 

hard  tasks  commence." 
Well,  perhaps ;  but  reading  slowly,  stumbling  much, 

they  lose  the  sense. 


4  5  CLAUDE  AND  ELOISE. 

Silent  lived  they,  neither  guessing  how  the  other's 

heart  would  grieve ; 
Oh,  the  crooked  paths  we  tread  in  !  oh,  the  tangled 

webs  we  weave  ! 

In  the  faultless  scales  of  Heaven  worlds  may  be  out 
weighed  by  tears ; 

Aye,  ofttimes  in  God's  great  balance  words  are 
heavier  than  spheres. 

Small  acts  may  decide  the  measure  of  our  future 

woe  or  bliss ; 
Idle  words  and  careless  glances  have  sealed  human 

destinies. 

Human  pride  and  human  anger,  ye  are  bitter  foes 

of  ours ; 
Ye  can  blight  our  joys  seraphic,  as  the  north-wind 

blights  the  flowers. 

Many  a  sweetly  blooming  promise  of  our  early  youth 

ye  kill ; 
O  my  Eloise,  in  silence  do  you  live  and  suffer  still? 


CLAUDE  AND  ELOTSE.  47 

'Tis  the  tearless  eye  that  burneth,  and   the  quiet. 

brow  that  aches ; 
'T  is  the  patient  soul  that  suffers,  and  the  silent  heart 

that  breaks. 

So  to-night  I  sit  and  wonder,  Did  thy  heart  break, 
Eloise  ? 

Is  the  pulse  of  human  anguish  therein  lulled  to  end 
less  peace  ? 

Sweetly,  sadly,  Memory  whispers  like  the  mournful 
autumn  gale, 

Makes  sad  music  on  my  heart-strings  with  this  half- 
forgotten  tale. 

Yet  it  soothes  me,  like  the  soft  hand  of  a  loving 

spirit  laid 
On  the  aching  soul,  and  left  there  till  the  fever-pain 

is  stayed. 

We  can  bear  the  solemn  minor  of  our  own  lives 

better,  when 
We  can  hear  the  same  chords  sounding  in  the  lives 

of  other  men. 


48  CLAUDE  AND  ELOISE. 

Sorrow  is  the  balm  of  sorrow;  grief  may  solace 

grief  again ; 
Sweet  is  fellowship  in  pleasure,  sweeter  fellowship 

in  pain. 

If  the  dirge  of  universal  sorrow,  as  it  upward  rolls, 
Keeps  our  souls  reverberating  with  the  dearth  of  other 
souls, 

We  shall  listen  less  intently  to  the  notes  of  pain  and 

strife 
In  our  own ;  and  gladder,  sweeter,  then  shall  ring 

our  song  of  life. 


MOTHER.  49 


MOTHER. 

'HP*  IS  marvellous,  the  power  of  a  word, 
-•-       How  it  can  drive  the  blood  in  scorching 

waves 

Along  the  veins  until  the  pulses  flame, 
Or  roll  it  back  until  the  drowning  heart 
Beats  'gainst  the  bosom  like  an  iron  fist, 
Leaving  the  brow  as  bloomless  and  as  cold 
As  drifted  snow,  and  make  the  eyes  dilate 
Like  earth-drawn  meteors.     As  a  full  red  rose 
Breaks  through  a  cobweb  on  a  summer  morn, 
I  Ve  seen  the  warm  blood  yearning  from  the  cheek 
At  sound  of  one  light  word  flung  from  the  lips 
Like  thistle-down  upon  the  idle  wind. 
I  Ve  known  such  word  to  lodge  within  the  breast, 
And  burn  and  beat  there  like  a  second  heart. 
A  word  's  a  thing  of  life  born  of  the  soul, 
And  plumed  with  wings  whose  flight  shall  distance 
time. 

4 


50  MOTHER. 

Behold,  a  word  's  the  image  of  a  thought ; 

'T  is  .like  the  thought :  and  yet  who  hath  not  felt, 

The  thought  is  often  better  than  the  word, 

As  God  is  far  more  excellent  than  man? 

And  yet  man  is  His  image,  like  to  Him. 

A  word  's  a  shrine  wherein  a  spirit  dwells. 

O  holy  image  of  a  holier  thought ! 

O  sweet  word  Mother,  shrine  wherein  abides 

The  purest  thought  conceived  of  human  heart ! 

O  word  of  all  words  that  are  not  divine  ! 

Thou  seemest  clothed  with  half  divinity, 

With  more  than  earthly  power ;  for  at  thy  sound, 

Or  at  its  echo  from  the  heights  of  Time, 

Like  note  of  shepherd's  horn  from  alpine  peaks, 

The  shining  poniard  from  the  victim's  heart 

Has  turned  aside  into  the  sheath  again ; 

A  tender  smile  has  lit  the  sullen  face, 

Like  sunlight  bursting  through  a  sombre  cloud  ; 

The  iron  heart  has  fused  to  hissing  tears. 

Beats  there  a  heart  so  seared  by  heats  of  time, 

So  dulled  by  sin,  it  does  not  sometimes  faint 

With  mother-hunger  in  life's  wilderness  ? 

Dumb  be  the  lips  and  palsied  be  the  tongue 


MOTHER.  51 

That  dare  revile  a  name  so  sanctified  ! 
World-conquerors  have  prized  a  mother's  tear 
Above  the  weighty  counsels  of  their  peers. 

My  Mother,  —  and  not  mine  alone,  but  ours, — 

Thou  pilot  star  upon  life's  wintry  sea, 

Smile  thou  on  all  our  dark,  thou  golden  clasp 

Upon  the  circlet  of  our  vestal  love  ! 

I  hear  thy  footfall  through  the  echoing  night, 

Light  as  the  leaf-fall  on  the  mellow  turf; 

As  priestess  mid  the  images  of  saints, 

I  see  thee  glide  amid  thy  sleeping  babes, 

Bearing  a  lighted  taper  in  thy  hand  ; 

I  see  thee  stroke  some  forehead  flushed  with  sleep 

As  blossom  with  the  rosy  light  of  eve, 

Or  gently  bend  to  kiss  away  the  tear 

That  shines  there  like  a  drop  of  pearly  dew ; 

I  hear  thee  whisper  soothing  words,  and  sing 

The  troubled  moan  into  a  fairy  dream. 

Thou  bearest  thy  children  through  the   changing 

years, 

As  wears  a  rose-tree  all  its  crown  of  buds  : 
Oh,  it  were  meet  that  they  at  last  should  bloom, 
And  bless  thee  with  their  beauteous  fragrant  lives  ! 


52  MOTHER. 

Thou  teachest  us,  not  all  the  great  of  earth 

Are  great  in  story,  and  thou  teachest  us 

That  princely  spirits  of  puissance  dwell 

In  fragile  tenements  ;  thou  teachest  us 

To  lose  and  live,  to  suffer  and  endure, 

To  stand  on  the  dark  world  and  touch  the  clouds, 

As  lofty  mountain  planted  on  the  earth 

Can  feel  the  throes  of  her  great  heart,  yet  bathe 

Its  forehead  in  the  rosy  light  of  heaven. 

Behold,  thy  children  rise  and  call  thee  blest. 

Wert  thou  a  glorious  hero,  I  would  sing 

Thy  martial  deeds ;  and  yet  Achilles'  shield 

Lay  not  upon  a  braver  heart  than  thine. 

Wert  thou  a  Stephen,  I  would  pause  and  sing 

Thy  glorious  martyrdom  ;  yet  martyred  saint 

Ne'er  suffered  with  more  saintly  grace  than  thou. 

The  thoughts  unuttered  are  ofttimes  the  thoughts 

Too  deep  for  human  speech,  as  pearls  that  lie 

Too  deep  in  ocean's  heart  to  catch  the  light. 

The  songs  from  which  our  lips  refrain  are  those 

Beyond  our  mastery ;  and  so  I  find 

That  song  and  speech  have  all  unworthy  proved 

Here  to  embalm  thy  goodness  or  our  love. 


WHERE  ART  THOU,  DARLING?  53 


WHERE  ART  THOU,   DARLING? 

T  T  7HERE  art  thou,  darling?     Dost  thou  lean 

Thy  forehead  from  yon  silver  star, 
While  in  the  ether  ocean  vast 
Titanic  suns  go  sweeping  past 
Like  ships  with  shrouds  of  fire  ?     Dost  ween 
How  I  do  stand  and  weep  afar  ? 

Hast  thou  forgot  the  mighty  love 
With  which  I  circled  thee  below  ? 
Do  bright-haired  angels,  folding  thee 
With  their  white  pinions  tenderly, 
Salute  thee  in  thy  rest  above 
With  deeper  love  than  I  could  show? 

As  round  a  sun  pale  planets  burn 
In  bright-revolving  clusters,  so 
Around  thy  forehead,  precious  one, 


54  WHERE  ART  THOU,  DARLING? 

Which  was  my  life,  my  light,  my  sun, 
All  hopes  and  purposes  did  turn, 
Circle  and  cluster,  change  and  glow. 

Where  art  thou,  darling?     I  entreat 
Of  sages,  and  they  answer  me  : 
'•'  Beyond  the  purlieus  of  all  Time, 
In  sempiternal  spheres  sublime 
Which  lie  at  rest  about  God's  feet, 
Somewhere  he  lives  eternally." 

O  blind  abstraction  !     Here  I  reel, 

And  clutch  the  air,  and  strive  for  breath  ! 

Oh,  Somewhere  is  too  near  akin 

To  Nowhere  for  my  soul  to  win 

A  gleam  of  hope  which  back  might  feel 

Through  the  black  gallery  of  death  ! 

If  these  time-weary  thoughts  of  mine, 
Beating  about  God's  universe, 
Could  find  some  solitary  star, 
However  lone  and  faint  and  far, 
To  rest  on,  saying,  "  Here  are  thine  !  " 
The  edge  were  taken  from  the  curse. 


WHERE  ART  THOU,  DARLING?  55 

Then  would  my  burning  restless  eyes 
Fasten  upon  that  blessed  star, 
And  I  should  whisper,  "  Thou  art  there, 
My  darling,  growing  very  fair  !" 
And  I  could  fancy  thou  didst  rise 
And  beckon  to  me  from  afar. 

And  if  the  rocks  of  this  terrene 
Should  bruise  my  hastening  feet  the  while, 
Then  I  could  look  up  through  the  night 
To  that  one  star  so  calm  and  white, 
And  I  could  fancy  thou  didst  lean 
Across  its  silver  edge,  and  smile. 

Ah,  Somewhere  out  there  in  the  night !  — 
Mad  am  I,  that  I  know  not  where  !  — 
Somewhere,  Somewhere  !  —  O  God,  be  just ! 
Remember  that  I  am  but  dust ! 
Strengthen  mine  eyelids  for  the  light 
Of  Thy  great  mysteries  laid  bare  ! 

Forgive  me  that  I  cannot  grasp 
A  radiant  mist,  and  hold  it  still ! 
The  heart  is  weak  ;  a  thousand  hearts 


56  WHERE  ART  THOU,  DARLING? 

Seem  shuddering  in  these  mortal  parts ; 

Forgive  me  that  I  cannot  clasp 

The  heaven-broad  blossom  of  Thy  will ! 

One  pointeth  earthward  when  I  cry ; 
His  slow  words  throb  like  a  death  toll ; 
He  sayeth  of  my  costly  pearl, 
Around  which  the  white  vapors  curl 
From  heavenly  shrines,  "  There  he  doth  lie, 
Thy  darling,  neighboring  with  the  mole  !  " 

Not  that !  No,  no  !  —  God  !  save  me,  God, 
From  that  black  vortex  of  despair 
Into  whose  deathful,  hellish  swirl, 
In  blinding  whirl  and  counter-whirl, 
All  hope  is  sucked  in  eddies  broad  ! 
Oh,  rather  say,  Somewhere,  Somewhere  ! 

Where  art  thou,  darling?  Lo  !  I  hold 
My  poor  face  to  the  dumb  gray  sky ; 
The  downy  pinions  of  the  snow 
Strike  soft  against  it  as  they  go  : 
Come,  darling,  on  my  forehead  cold 
Lay  thy  soft  finger-tips,  and  I 


WHERE  ART  THOU,  DARLING?  57 

Shall  be  content  a  little  while ; 

For  though  upon  my  death-numb  brow 

Thy  hand  fell  lighter  than  the  snow, 

My  darling,  I  should  surely  know 

That  it  were  thine,  and  I  could  smile,  — 

A  grace  I  have  forgotten  now. 

Where  art  thou,  darling?     Like  a  bell 

Ringing  most  sweetly  down  the  broad 

Abyss  which  gaps  'twixt  Heaven  and  Time, 

I  hear  thy  voice  :  a  sweeter  chime 

It  taketh  on,  a  loftier  swell ; 

It  whispers,  "  Love,  Somewhere  with  God  !" 

Oh,  sweeter  than  the  tuneful  wave 
That  creeps  up  singing  from  the  sea, 
Sweeter  than  Hermes'  chorded  shell,  — 
Oh,  richer  than  deep  organ  swell 
Through  echoing  transept,  aisle,  and  nave,  — 
"  Somewhere  with  God  I  wait  for  thee  !  " 


58  LOVE  AND    DOUBT. 


LOVE   AND   DOUBT. 

WEET  Faith,  my  dawn-star  and  my  nightingale, 

I  cannot  keep  from  singing ;  hear  my  song  ! 
Thou  wilt  remember  a  low-breathing  night 
We  stood  within  the  garden  dim  and  still, 
When  tulips  held  their  red  cups  to  the  stars 
To  catch  the  crystal  dew-wine  cloud-distilled, 
When  Hyacinthus  in  his  yearly  bloom 
Breathed  forth  his  sweet  soul  on  the  young  June  air, 
And  like  a  silver  pendulum  the  moon 
Swung  slowly  through  her  ample  arc  of  blue. 
I  clasped  thy  hand,  and  cried,  "  O  Faith,  sweet  Faith, 
No  broad  skirt-sweep  of  time,  no  breadth  of  space, 
No  power  of  man  or  hell  or  heaven  itself, 
Shall  drive  our  souls  asunder  into  time ; 
But  thou,  my  dawn-star  and  my  nightingale, 
Shalt  ever  light  my  soul  and  sing  to  it !  " 
I  fastened  on  thy  lips,  and  lingered  there 
As  bee  half-drunk  with  sweets  hangs  on  a  rose ; 


LOVE  AND  DOUBT.  59 

Then  turned,  and  glided  like  a  happy  dream 
Through  the  dim  garden.     But  I  hungered  still, 
And  turned,  like  Orpheus,  to  gaze  on  thee. 
Still  thou  wert  standing,  with  a  smile  as  sweet 
As  thou  hadst  given  me,  —  but  not  for  me ; 
Another  clasped  thy  hand,  bowed  over  it : 
I  knew  him  well ;  he  was  thy  early  friend. 
The  moon  reeled  forward,  and  the  dizzy  stars 
Seemed  plunging  headlong  from  their  native  spheres. 
A  tongue  of  fire  leaped  in  my  heart  and  set 
My  pulses  burning  outward  through  my  veins. 
Out  of  a  little  shadowed  circumstance, 
A  hand-clasp,  or  a  word  not  understood, 
In  the  white  heat  of  passion  oft  we  forge 
A  chain  of  weary  doubts  and  vague  distrusts 
Which  tethers  us  to  an  abiding  grief. 
I  stood  before  thee,  white  as  that  cold  moon ; 
Between  my  teeth  I  muttered  :  "  Make  this  clear  !  " 
With  all  thy  proud  soul  dawning  in  thine  eyes, 
Thou  didst  reply  :  "  I  scorn  to  make  aught  clear  ! 
The  love  that  must  be  justified  by  words 
Cannot  be  love  at  all ;  "  and  thou  wert  gone. 
I  turned,  and  like  a  nightmare  through  the  dark 
I  fled  away.     My  anguished  soul  cried  out : 


60  LOVE  AND  DOUBT. 

"  Ye  painless  stars,  drop  from  your  silver  brows 
Some  antidote  for  grief,  some  lethean  drug 
Such  as  the  Argive  Helen  gave  her  guests  ! 
Hush  this  wild  pain,  O  thou  soft-bosomed  Sleep  ! 
Thou  white-armed  nurse  of  sorrow,  fold  my  soul !  " 
Complaining  thus,  I  slept.     Then  thou  didst  come, 
Plucking  my  heart  out,  held  it  in  thy  hands. 
One  shivering  cord  still  bound  it  to  my  breast ; 
O'er  this  I  felt  the  palpitating  life 
Throb  inward  through  my  being,  and  I  knew 
To  break  the  cord  between  us  meant  to  die. 
Straightway  I  rose,  and  like  a  shadow  crept 
Into  the  garden,  lying  dim  and  still. 
I  touched  the  clustering  hearts  that  bowed  themselves 
Upon  their  stems,  and  down  their  delicate  points 
Bled  drops  of  crimson  ;  I  caressed  thy  rose ; 
I  kissed  the  dew  dry  on  thy  hyacinths. 
A  white  mist  from  the  river  floated  up, 
And  drifted  moonward  like  a  phantom  ship ; 
Across  the  pearly  forehead  of  the  dawn 
The  new  day's  life  in  scarlet  pulses  beat ; 
Through  glooms  of  purple,  like  the  morning  star 
I  saw  thy  forehead  gleaming :  then  I  caught 
Thy  dew-damp  skirts,  and  cried, "  Forgive,  forgive  !  " 


LOVE  AND  DOUBT.  6 1 

Thy  answer  came  :  "  Forgiven,  oh,  forgiven  ! 
He  was  a  friend  in  trouble."  —  "  Stop  !  "  I  cried ; 
"  No  word  of  thine  shall  make  aught  clear  to  me. 
'  The  love  that  must  be  justified  by  words 
Cannot  be  love  at  all : '  so  thou  hast  said ; 
But  is  this  love  of  mine,  all  passion-stained, 
Doubt-frayed  about  its  golden  edges,  fit 
To  enter  in  thy  soul,  and  weave  itself 
About  the  white  bloom  of  thy  thoughts,  sweet  Faith? " 
Oh,  I  remember  how  thy  hands  were  dropped 
Like  soft  white  lilies  down  upon  my  own  ! 
A  smile  burst  in  full  bloom  upon  thy  lip. 
Oh,  I  remember  how  thy  luminous  words 
Through  my  soul's  twilight  fell  like  shower  of  stars  ! 
Thou  saidst :    "  Dear  heart,  't  is  strength  of  love 

makes  doubt, 

As  sun  in  summer  solstice  gathers  clouds ; 
And  love  is  always  sweeter  afterward, 
As  skies  are  always  clearer  after  rain. 
Who  never  doubted,  never  truly  loved." 


62  THE  COMFORTER. 


WHO  COMFORTETH  THE   COMFORTER. 

T3EHOLD  him  \    How  his  great  heart  glows 
^~^     Into  his  eyes,  and  overflows 

His  eyelids  with  their  fringes  brown ; 
Just  as  the  sun's  heart  over-slips 
The  lids  of  night,  and  freely  drips 

In  lachrymals  of  glory  down. 

You  touched  his  hand  :  how  warm  and  strong, 
As  if  his  great  heart  lay  along 

The  ample  palm  !    He  spoke  to  you  : 
His  words  were  like  the  viewless  fall 
Of  God's  dews  scattered  over  all, 

They  were  so  fresh  and  pure  and  true. 

He  smiles  or  weeps  with  all  who  weep 
Or  smile ;  wherever  shadows  creep, 
His  face  comes,  as  God's  morning  were 


THE   COMFORTER.  63 

Upon  it :  but  of  all  who  drink 
His  sweet  wise  words,  does  any  think 
Who  comforteth  the  comforter? 

At  night  he  wrestles  with  his  pain 
Alone,  and  looks  out  through  a  rain 

Of  tears  to  see  if  through  the  dim 
Angels  are  breaking  like  the  dawn, 
With  cool  white  hands  to  rest  upon 

His  reeking  forehead,  soothing  him. 

Oh,  he  whose  lips  breathe  constant  grace, 
Who  ever  bears  upon  his  face 

The  silent  grand  apocalypse 
Of  God's  sweet  mercy,  must  receive 
Small  part  of  what  he  gives,  and  grieve 

Uncomforted  in  Hope's  eclipse. 

Uncomforted  ?    Nay,  think  not  so  ! 

White  deeds,  dropped  thickly,  drift  like  snow, 

And  lift  the  soul  where  it  may  boast 
Of  saint-like  nearness  to  Christ's  feet, 
And  angel  intimacies  sweet : 

He  knows  Christ  best  who  helps  men  most. 


64  THE   COMFORTER. 

Pure  deeds  are  fruit  of  love  divine, 
And  bear  the  soul  their  own  sweet  wine 

To  make  its  holiest  pulses  stir 
With  angel  rapture  :  men  forget 
That  great  hearts  suffer  greatly ;  yet 

God  comforteth  the  comforter. 


FAREWELL.  65 


FAREWELL. 

TT?AREWELL,  my  friends,  forevermore  farewell ! 

I  am  not  thine,  nor  thine,  nor  yet  my  own. 
I  am  to-day  a  thing  most  incomplete  : 
A  part  of  me  is  left  with  Yesterday ; 
A  part  approaches  from  To-morrow's  shore. 
See  yonder  where  the  day's  shut  eye  has  left 
Its  golden  lashes  fringing  down  the  west : 
Before  it  opens  on  the  world  again 
I  shall  have  changed,  have  taken  and  have  given. 
The  rosy  pinioned  Hours  that  beat  the  air, 
And  set  it  singing  to  the  tune  of  hope, 
Each,   saucy-lipped,   cries,   "Thou   art  mine,   art 

mine  ! " 

The  fair  fleet-footed  days  that  follow  on, 
Into  my  soul  their  delicate  fingers  thrust ; 
Each  takes  a  portion,  and  a  portion  leaves. 
I  hear  the  tread  of  the  majestic  years 
5 


66  FAREWELL. 

Loud  ring  along  the  echoing  track  of  Time  ; 

Each  something  takes  in  passing,  something  leaves. 

The  false  of  yesterday,  to-day  is  truth ; 

The  truths  of  yesterday,  to-day  are  false. 

The  vision  bright,  white-bosomed,  crimson-lipped, 

That  yester-morning  whispered,  "  I  am  Love  !  " 

To-day,  a  withered  crone,  shrieks,  "  I  am  Hate  !  " 

Friendships,  most  sweet  at  yester-eve,  have  grown 

Wide-mouthed  Medusas,  snaky-ringleted. 

That  which  to-day  I  call  most  good  and  sweet, 

Shall  gall  and  wormwood  prove  to-morrow  morn. 

Farewell,  my  friends  !  hold  fast  that  which  ye  have  ! 

Ye  shall  not  see  me  more,  but  part  of  me. 

Of  thee  I  take,  and  of  myself  I  leave. 

Sun-systems,  worlds,  rocks,  thrones,  and   souls,  all 

seem 

In  vortices  of  dissolution  whirled. 
Perhaps,  when  through  the  limbec  of  the  years 
My  being  shall  have  filtered  out  of  Time, 
It  will  have  grown  so  subtly  fine  and  pure, 
No  grosser  thing  can  cleave  to  it  or  take 
Of  its  ethereal  substance  any  part. 
The  silver  plough  of  Night  breaks  up  the  dark 
In  shining  furrows,  and  an  unseen  hand 


FAREWELL.  67 

Sows  seeds  of  light  along  the  field  of  heaven. 
Farewell !     I  go  while  yet  I  seem  unchanged ; 
One  thing  alone  I  hold  as  mine  to  keep,  — 
My  faith  in  God,  as  fixed,  unchangeable, 
Creation's  rock,  firm-based,  infrangible. 


68  SYMPA  THY. 


SYMPATHY. 

'nr^HE  white-toothed  sea  gnaws  at  the  grizzly  rocks, 
And  moans  along  the  shore  like  one  in  pain ; 
High  on  the  glistening  sands  its  hoary  locks 
In  strands  of  foam  fall  o'er  and  o'er  again. 

The  purple-footed  eve  across  the  wave 
Comes  like  a  maiden  to  her  lover's  tomb ; 

Her  hands  are  full  of  stars  to  deck  the  grave 
Of  the  dead  day,  deep-sepulchred  in  gloom. 

The  moon  is  cold  and  white  as  some  dead  face ; 

About  the  stars  a  gray  mist  seems  to  cling ; 
The  sea-gull  circles  low  with  weary  grace ; 

The  wind  grieves  shoreward  like  a  hunted  thing. 

But  yester-eve,  the  sky  and  sea  were  bright  : 
In  earth's  one  round  the  universe  has  changed ; 

The  moon  and  stars  have  parted  from  their  light 
Because  one  friend  to  me  has  been  estranged. 


SYMPATHY.  69 

'T  is  sympathy  of  heart  to  heart  inclined,  — 
The  cord  that  'twixt  two  spirits  may  abide, 

O'er  which  thought  flashes  thought  from  mind  to 

mind, 
That  robes  the  earth  in  beauty  like  a  bride,  — 

Sweet  sympathy,  that  soothes  earth's  saddest  wail, 
Wakes  deeper  rapture  when  the  linnet  trills, 

Sings  in  the  soul's  dark  like  a  nightingale, 

Runs  through  life's  web  of  care  in  magic  thrills ; 

Makes  stars  burn  deeper  through  night's  shadowy 
flow, 

Imparts  a  richer  bloom  to  flowers  and  fruits, 
And,  failing,  makes  the  bright  sun  smoulder  low, 

And  stars  seem  withered  to  their  golden  roots. 

Love  lights  Earth  down  the  ages  to  her  goal, 
And  sympathy  is  love's  most  glorious  part,  — 

O  human  sympathy,  balm  of  the  soul, 

And  precious  ointment  to  the  bruised  heart ! 


70  THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  A   FRIEND. 


ON  THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  A  FRIEND. 

I^ARTH'S  millions  dream  upon  the  breast  of  Night, 

And  not  a  living  creature  seems  to  start, 
Though  all  the  eyes  of  heaven  are  filled  with  light, 
While  ponderous  thoughts  do  hold  my  lids  apart. 

The  Northern  Light  streams  like  a  burning  tress 
Shorn  from  the  brow  of  some  refulgent  god  ; 

The  hand  of  Night,  in  beautiful  excess, 

As  grains  of  wheat  has  sown  the  stars  abroad. 

O  thou,  the  goblet  of  whose  life  contains, 
Even  with  mine,  its  one-and-twenty  years, 

Who  waitest  the  slow  result  of  Time  to  rain 
The  fragile  chalice  full  of  smiles  and  tears,  — 

Above  the  gaping  distance  let  us  bend 

Our  spirits,  as  the  heaven's  blue  arch  the  sea, 

Until  the  currents  of  our  thoughts  shall  blend 
And  rush  on  in  one  torrent  strong  and  free  ! 


THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  A   FRIEND.  71 

O  blissful  age,  with  budding  promise  set 
Thick  in  hope's  verdure,  springing  green  and  lush, 

With  dewy  sweetness  of  desire  still  wet, 
Rose-tinted  with  ambition's  kindling  flush  ! 

The  round  earth  seems  to  spin  beneath  our  feet, 
To  bend  and  smile  the  hollow  blue  above, 

The  streams  unto  the  peaceful  vales  to  bleat, 
The  vales  to  sing  unto  the  hills  of  love. 

The  harp  of  Thought  within  the  hands  of  Time 
Is  quivering  through  all  its  thousand  strings, 

Beneath  the  magic  touch  of  souls  sublime, 
As  harp  seolian  fanned  by  seraph  wings. 

The  air  around  us  thrills  and  palpitates 

With  living  strains  which  Homer's  dead  have  sung ; 

Beyond  the  Future's  ever  close-shut  gates 

The  golden  bells  of  promise  long  have  rung,  — 

Promise  that  Science,  with  her  swift-winged  feet 
Striding  from  orb  to  orb  with  zeal  o'erfraught, 

Shall  come  at  last  to  Truth's  most  deep  retreat, 
And  lead  her  forth  in  the  full  light  of  Thought ; 


72  THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  A   FRIEND. 

That  Truth  shall  fearless  war  with  Falsehood  wage, 
Her  silver  tongue  drop  ringing  words  that  tell, 

Strike  deep  and  sweet  on  the  responsive  age, 
Like  hammer  struck  on  deep-resounding  bell ; 

Promise  that  Justice's  iron  hand  shall  reach 
Out  of  the  clouds,  and  feel  from  soul  to  soul, 

Correct  man's  judgment  as  a  watch,  and  teach 
The  passions  to  submit,  mind  to  control ; 

That  Love,  with  fair  encircling  arms,  embrace 
All  Adam's  sons,  east,  west,  and  north,  and  south, 

Upon  her  milk-white  breast,  and  bend  to  place 
Her  tender  palm  upon  the  cannon's  mouth ; 

Promise  that  Art  shall  come  at  last  to  sit 
Enthroned  at  Nature's  bountiful  right  hand, 

So  pure  and  beautiful  all  shall  admit 

That  next  to  Nature  Art  should  peerless  stand. 

We  follow  Science,  and  we  pant  for  Truth ; 

We  long  to  see  the  hand  of  Justice  reign ; 
We  cling  unto  Art's  ample  skirts,  forsooth, 

And  cry  as  babes  the  mother's  eye  to  gain. 


THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  A  FRIEND.  73 

We  long  to  wake  the  Muses  from  their  trance, 
And  hear  the  ringing  epic  tell  of  worth, 

From  souls  that  burn  and  lips  that  breathe,  per 
chance, 
Not  from  dead  Homers  of  uncertain  birth. 

Our  souls  with  pure  desires  have  grown  replete,  — 
Desire  to  strengthen  human  love  and  trust, 

To  press  unto  our  lips  Truth's  bugle  sweet, 
And  lay  some  wall  of  Error  low  in  dust ; 

To  lift  again  the  lowly-fallen  lyre 

Of  finite  bliss  which  mortals  still  yearn  toward, 
And,  striking  it  with  strong  and  pure  desire, 

Bring  all  its  false  strings  into  sweet  accord ; 

To  nurture  every  bud  of  purpose  true 

Put  forth  among  the  leaves  of  human  thought, 

To  feed  it  with  love's  subtilizing  dew, 

Till  to  the  blooming  rose  of  action  brought. 

Oh,  is  it  thus  that  other  souls  have  yearned 
With  large  desire  unto  their  kindred  race  ? 

Oh,  is  it  thus  that  other  hearts  have  burned 
To  clothe  existence  with  surpassing  grace  ? 


74  THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  A   FRIEND. 

Oh,  is  it  thus  that  other  lives  have  leapt 

To  ardent  flame  beneath  the  breath  of  Time, 

But  to  resolve  to  frail  white  dust  far  swept 
By  idle  winds  that  roam  from  clime  to  clime? 

O  sweet  Ionian  vales  !  speak  unto  us 
And  tell  us,  do  thy  dew-anointed  flowers 

Shoot  slender  roots  through  breasts  that  panted  thus, 
Through  heart-dust  made  from  hearts  that  beat 
like  ours? 

O  Ida,  on  whose  breast  the  fountain  feeds, 
Within  thy  sight  how  many  God-like  men 

Have  thought  great  thoughts,  enacted  valiant  deeds, 
Hoped,  doubted,  struggled,  and  were  dust  again? 

Has  oft  the  cold  moon,  sitting  on  thy  brow, 
Seen  giant  spirits  struggling  in  the  night, 

Souls  wrestling  and  brows  aching  then  as  now, 
Through  fleshy  darkness  feeling  for  the  light? 

O  fallen  Greece  !  thou  shattered  jewel  set 
In  fair  encircling  seas  like  jasper-stones, 

The  ghost  of  ancient  glory  whispers  yet 
Amid  thy  broken  columns,  and  its  tones 


THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  A   FRIEND.  75 

Are  all  prophetic  of  the  cyclic  course 

Of  human  history  upon  the  face 
Of  Time's  unfathomed  deep,  and  its  discourse 

Breathes  vaguely  of  a  mighty  unborn  race. 

On  some  sublime  Parnassus  we  shall  wait, 

Where  vanished  Muses  once  again  shall  reign, 

And  epic  poets  yet  shall  crown  our  state, 

While  living  minstrels  breathe  the  lyric  strain. 

As  grows  a  faint  light  in  the  eastern  sky, 
The  coming  of  the  bright  orb  to  presage, 

So  modern  Art,  upclimbing  bright  and  high, 
Shall  orb  itself  into  a  golden  age. 

What  if  our  lives  but  burn  as  finite  sparks, 

And  in  the  universal  flame  be  blent 
That  flashes  through  Creation's  deepest  darks, 

If  they  the  general  light  and  heat  augment ! 

As  yon  pale  star  on  heaven's  eastern  curve 
Surveys  the  golden  ranks  of  marching  spheres, 

Views  calmly  each  majestic  dip  and  swerve 
Of  giant  suns  among  their  blazing  peers,  — 


76  THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  A   FRIEND. 

So  we  on  life's  low  rim  the  light  have  caught 
From  giant  spirits  in  their  courses  bright 

Throughout  the  boundless  universe  of  thought, 
And  rest  content  to  show  a  little  light. 

Above  the  gaping  distance  let  us  bend 

Our  spirits,  as  the  heaven's  blue  arch  the  sea, 

Until  the  currents  of  our  love  shall  blend 
And  rush  on  in  one  torrent  strong  and  free  ! 

Thou  knowest  that  each  feebly-spoken  word 
Is  but  a  rude  sketch  of  the  inner  thought, 

And  how  the  spirit,  like  a  new-caged  bird, 

Pines  for  life's  wildwood  with  true  action  fraught. 

I  know  how,  'neath  thy  spirit's  outspread  wings, 
Life's  pure  air  ever  beats  against  thy  heart ; 

And,  as  the  wild-bird  in  the  thicket  sings, 
Thou  singest  sweetly  wheresoe'er  thou  art. 

Thou  singest  day  by  day,  although  thy  voice 
Should  quaver  now  and  then  with  inward  pain ; 

And  all  who  hear  thy  happy  notes  rejoice, 
As  all  the  wood  to  hear  the  linnet's  strain. 


THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  A  FRIEND.  77 

My  friend  !  no  higher  title  sceptred  king 
Upon  his  dearest  subject  could  bestow ; 

Within  my  soul  thy  memory  doth  sing : 

Mine  lives  unchanged  within  thy  soul,  I  know. 

I  count  it  ample  proof  of  human  worth 
To  be  the  faithful  friend  of  one  true  heart ; 

I  hold  there  is  no  sweeter  thing  on  earth 

Than  in  pure  friendship  to  have  equal  part,  — 

A  friendship  bright  and  constant  as  the  stars, 
That  changes  not  with  change  of  time  or  state ; 

No  cloud  of  doubt  its  steady  lustre  bars, 
Through  all  the  cyclic  years  inviolate. 

If  men  will  name  the  virtues  of  the  dead 

When  life's  frail  thread  is  spun  out  to  its  end, 

First  of  my  virtues  I  would  have  it  said 
That  I  was  reckoned  as  a  faithful  friend. 

No  scoffing  tongue  shall  ever  say  that  Time 

Laid  icy  hands  upon  our  early  love, 
Or  yawning  distance  made  it  less  sublime  ; 

Such  friendship  years  but  strengthen  while  they 
prove. 


78  THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  A  FRIEND. 

Still  living,  bright,  are  those  transcendent  days 
When,  arm-in-arm,  we  held  sweet  intercourse ; 

And  not  a  whole  world's  weighty  blame  or  praise 
Can  dim  their  lustre  or  abate  their  force. 

Twice  has  the  autumn  wept  its  yellow  leaves 
In  sadness  on  the  earth's  maternal  breast ; 

The  frozen  dews  of  two  bright  Christmas  Eves 
Have  fallen,  since  thy  loving  hand  I  pressed. 

This  New  Year's  Eve  I  sit  and  wait  alone 
The  dying  of  the  Old  Year  from  the  earth, 

When  Time  shall  bear  him  from  his  crystal  throne, 
While  silver  chimes  proclaim  the  new  king's  birth. 

The  trees,  like  white-robed  maidens,  toss  their  arms 

Unto  the  sky,  its  bosom  all  aglow 
With  stars  set  thick  upon  its  azure  charms, 

While  stars  flash  back  from  earth's  white  veil  below. 

A  light  cloud  hides,  on  yon  cerulean  wall, 

Night's  brightest  orb  ;  I  miss  it  from  its  place, 

As  when  you  miss  the  dearest  friend  of  all, 

Though  countless  other  friends  smile  on  your  face. 


THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  A   FRIEND.  79 

Though  pendulous  orbs  of  light,  a  shining  crowd, 
Swing  through  unmeasured  arcs  of  light  afar, 

I  smile  when  from  yon  fleecy  island  cloud 

Into  the  still  blue  sails  that  white-browed  star ; 

As  when  a  great  thought,  leaping  in  the  brain, 
All  on  a  sudden  makes  the  pulses  thrill,  — 

A  thought  we  have  been  searching  long  in  vain, 
Bursts  star-like  on  us  without  act  or  will. 

And  now  floats  up  the  full  fair-breasted  moon 

Along  the  sky,  majestically,  slow, 
As  when  a  graceful  swan,  at  breathless  noon, 

Drifts  o'er  the  azure  lake,  with  breast  of  snow. 

A  thousand  worlds  above,  one  world  below, 
Flash  on  the  night  a  wondrous  light  and  calm  ; 

Earth,  mantled  in  her  priestly  robe  of  snow, 
Seems  breathing  forth  a  mighty  wordless  psalm. 

A  glory  indeterminate  doth  gleam 

Around  her,  as  a  smile  lights  all  the  face  ; 

And  lo  !  as  one  that  hath  a  pleasant  dream, 
She  softly  sighs  about  my  watching  place. 


8o  THE  BIRTIIDA  Y  OF  A   FRIEND. 

Ah  !  hark,  the  bells  !  the  year,  the  year  is  dead  ! 

A  strand  of  life  knit  up  !     Old  Year,  good-by  ! 
In  Time's  dark  catacombs  go  make  thy  bed, 

With  a  long  train  of  noble  peers  to  lie  ! 

Come  in,  New  Year,  with  all  thy  youthful  grace  ; 

The  light  breeze  fans  thee  with  its  frost-plumed 

wing; 
The  new  day  holds  thee  in  its  strong  embrace  : 

So  fair  a  nurse  ne'er  fondled  infant  king. 

Bring  to  these  hearts  a  thousand  high  resolves ; 

Bring  love  to  sweeten  all  earth's  wrong  and  ruth ; 
Bring  faith  in  faith,  as  sphere  in  sphere  revolves ; 

Bring  in  the  bounteous  harvest-time  of  Truth  ! 

Bring  us  the  light  of  free  unbiased  thought ; 

Breathe  souls  of  action  into  lifeless  creeds  ; 
With  blessed  wisdom  let  thy  wings  be  fraught ; 

Oh,  bring  a  swollen  tide  of  saintly  deeds  ! 

Ring  thou  the  knell  of  prejudice  and  pride ; 

Ring  thou  the  marriage-bell  of  rank  and  worth  ; 
Throughout  thy  reign  let  Might  in  Right  abide ; 

Tread  down  false  social  systems  unto  earth  ! 


THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  A  FRIEND.  8 1 

As  Summer  cloud  brings  famished  earth  the  rain, 
And  Spring  the  song-bird  to  the  silent  nook, 

Bring  thou  my  cherished  friend  to  me  again ; 
I  pant  for  her,  as  hart  for  water-brook  ! 

Thou  earnest,  my  friend,  into  the  world  with  song ; 

The  glad  bells  called  to  echoes  far  away ; 
The  changing  seasons  of  thy  life  along 

Have  kept  the  music  of  thy  natal  day. 

A    thousand  lights,  —  love,    thought,    with    action 
blent,  — 

Shall  meet  at  last  in  one  existence  bright, 
As  when  a  thousand  sunbeams  fall  aslant 

The  world,  and  meet  in  one  broad  ray  of  light. 

Large  heart,  large  mind,  in  thee  hold  equal  part, 
And  neither  cramped  for  having  half  the  reign ; 

Not  less  than  man  because  thou  hast  a  heart, 
Not  less  a  woman  that  thou  hast  a  brain  ! 

My  song  is  ended ;  silent  is  my  lute. 

The  new  day  enters,  and  mine  eye  beholds 
The  Old  Year  rounded  to  its  perfect  fruit, 

And  fallen ;  and  another  bud  unfolds. 


82  A    VISION  OF  LOVE. 


A  VISION   OF  LOVE. 


OO  ye  will  have  my  love-tale  in  a  song  ! 

^"^     Why,  I  might  give  it  in  one  liquid  word, 

As  from  the  leafy  dark  a  simple  bird 

By  one  clear  note  repeated  oft  and  long 

Pours  out  the  life-thrills  in  him,  sweet  and  strong. 

Yet  know  ye  that  the  soul's  deep  seas  are  stirred 

By  one  white  leap  of  lightning  truth,  unheard, 

Unseen  without,  but  felt  the  soul  along. 

When  I  have  done,  your  lids  shall  starward  turn  ; 

Ye  '11  say :  "  We  feel  some  throbs  of  love  pure-toned, 

Cravings  for  some  new  life  to  beat  and  burn 

Through  all  our  veins  of  being ;  we  have  owned 

An  ideal  love  to  which  the  soul  must  yearn, 

Thus  keeping  something  God-like  undethroned." 

ii. 

Beneath  the  evening  star,  through  eve's  deep  still, 
He  came,  with  brows  such  as  the  fancy  weaves 


A  VISION  OF  LOVE.  83 

With  myrtle  spray  to  which  the  white  dew  cleaves ; 

His  voice  flowed  as  the  music  of  a  rill, 

Rustled  through  all  my  pulses  with  a  thrill 

As  comes  a  fresh  wind,  shaking  all  the  leaves, 

When  from  the  thicket  upon  stilly  eves 

A  wild  bird  tunes  his  mate  a  good-night  trill. 

In  those  calm  eyes,  bent  star-like  on  my  face, 

In  all  the  matchless  thews  of  limb  and  brain, 

The  true  mouth's  curves  of  sweetness,  and  the  grace 

Of  words  inimitable  which  fell  like  rain 

From  off  its  crimson  edges,  I  could  trace 

My  soul's  one  answering  soul  through  bliss  and  pain. 

HI. 

Out  on  the  current  of  a  holy  theme 
Our  two  souls  drifted  in  the  barge  of  speech, 
Learning  the  beauties  either  life  could  teach ; 
Truth,  with  her  white  oars,  steered  us  down  the 

stream. 

Each  in  the  other  caught  the  kindred  gleam 
Of  something  heavenly,  star-bright  in  each,  — 
A  yearning  for  the  glories  out  of  reach, 
A  wrestling  toward  things  real  through  things  that 

seem. 


84  A    VISION  OF  LOVE. 

Thought  ripened  to  such  strength  that  words  seemed 

weak; 

I  felt  my  blood  its  parent  fountain  spurn, 
The  heart-leaps  and  the  flush  upon  the  cheek 
Which  come  when  two  souls  on  a  sudden  learn 
By  flash  of  word  which  one  may  chance  to  speak 
That  kindred  aspirations  in  them  burn. 


IV. 

What   power  can  part  souls  wedded  thus,  which 

seek 

The  same  white  glistering  star  in  life's  gray  skies? 
I  thought,  and  felt  in  my  soul's  longing  eyes 
His  pure  glance,  masterful,  yet  angel  meek, 
Tempting  the  blood  i'  th'  veins  to  'scape  the  cheek. 
Thick  shining  words  he  spake  then,  dewed   with 

sighs, 
Like  flowers  when  from  the  east  the  young  Dawn 

hies, 
And  breathes  upon  them ;    what  is  't  thou   dost 

speak  ? 

"  Thyself  created  me,  O  loving  heart, 
And  crowned  me  with  divine  mortality ; 


A    VISION  OF  LOVE.  85 

Earth  holds  me  not,  nor  yet  my  counterpart ; 
I  have  no  being,  dear  heart,  but  in  thee, 
Where  I  was  shaped  by  Love's  immortal  art ; 
Love  only  claimeth  white  souls  blemish-free." 

v. 

Beneath  the  evening  star,  through  eve's  deep  hush, 

He  passed  into  the  purple  deeps  again, 

As  slips  a  rare  dream  from  the  waking  brain, 

Leaving  upon  my  brow  a  dying  flush, 

But  on  my  slow-revolving  days  a  blush 

Of  perfect  beauty  that  shall  never  wane 

Beneath  the  cold  hand  of  unceasing  pain, 

Though  slow  senility  life's  bloom  should  crush. 

For  I  have  felt  the  beauty  and  the  balm 

Of  love  that 's  heart  to  heart  and  mind  to  mind ; 

A  joy  beyond  the  touch  of  palm  to  palm ; 

A  deeper,  holier  rapture  than  ye  find 

In  clasp  and  kiss ;  a  love  so  deep  and  calm 

It  may  not  be  by  sensual  souls  divined. 


86  THE  DEAD  HERO. 


THE  DEAD   HERO. 


'"T^HROUGH  all  the  land  a  solemn  whisper  thrills ; 

The  startled  breath  upon  the  warm  lip  lies ; 
And  all  the  bells  with  trembling  tongues  arise 
To  iterate  the  news  through  vales  and  hills ; 
Adown  the  Nation's  cheek  tears  flow  in  rills ; 
The  faces  of  the  years  look  from  the  skies 
With  the  dead  hero's  glory  in  their  eyes, 
While  Freedom's  crimson  down  their  white  breasts 

spills. 

Oh,  high  between  the  flaming  cherubim 
Of  Truth  and  Freedom  we  will  set  his  name  ; 
Our  children  will  not  let  its  lustre  dim, 
And  Time  will  guard  it  with  a  sword  of  flame  ; 
No  cloud  of  cold  contum'lious  words  shall  swim 
Across  this  central  sun  'mid  suns  of  fame. 


THE  DEAD  HERO.  87 

n. 

Lo,  with  a  sea  of  sounding  words  we  flood 
The  name  that  is  a  tinkling  cymbal  now ; 
With  love's  sweet  tears  we  bathe  the  frozen  brow ; 
We  cover  all  unworthiness  with  blood. 
We  see  him  only  as  he  grandly  stood, 
His  life  flung  at  his  country's  feet,  and  how, 
Like  century-moulded  oak  that  cannot  bow 
'Neath  common  storms,  or  yield  its  leaf  and  bud 
To  common  frosts,  he  met  the  fire  and  steel 
As  if  they  were  but  sunbeams  'round  his  face, 
And  dared  not  pierce  a  heart  so  strong  and  leal. 
Peace,  sainted  hero,  in  thy  resting-place  ! 
And  by  the  heart  that  loved  its  country's  weal, 
We  swear  to  guard  thy  memory's  stainless  grace. 

in. 

I  scarce  dare  mould  in  words  the  traitorous  thought : 

But  is  this  glorious,  this  immortal  dead, 

The  mortal  man  of  whom  so  late  men  said 

Such  keen-whet  words  with  subtle  meaning  fraught, 

And,  looking  at  him  sidewise,  daily  sought 


88  THE  DEAD  HERO. 

To  have  new  light  upon  his  frailties  shed  ? 
Does  death  fall  like  a  glory  on  the  head, 
Brightening  life's  bright,  and  purging  every  blot  ? 
If  this  be  true,  oh,  it  were  sweet  to  die, 
And  know  that  men's  untarnished  love  and  praise 
Will  on  my  memory  like  a  white  star  lie, 
Whose  beams  shall  be  a  crown  to  my  dead  days ; 
That  'round  my  soul's  shut  gates  will  float  the  sigh 
"  Peace,  sainted  spirit ;  good  were  all  thy  ways  !  " 


THE  SNOW.  89 


THE  SNOW. 

N 

"D  ETWEEN  thy  frozen  eyelids,  in  swift  grace, 
•*—*     Touched  with  the  form  and  splendor  of  the 

spheres, 

As  white  as  angel's  thoughts,  thy  gelid  tears, 
O  mourning  Nature,  down  thy  bosom  trace 
Their  way,  and  fold  thee  in  a  white  embrace. 
Oh,  soft  as  footsteps  of  retreating  years 
That  vibrate  only  in  the  soul's  quick  ears  ! 
Oh,  pure  as  kisses  on  an  infant's  face  ! 
Thus  may  my  days  fall  —  white,  and  pure,  and  still  — 
Upon  the  World's  cold  forehead,  lending  so 
More  grace  to  her  bleak  brows  which  throb  and  thrill 
With  inward  fevers ;  noiseless  as  the  snow, 
Oh,  white  and  noiseless,  may  they  drift,  and  fold 
Dark  spaces  of  the  earth  with  grace  untold ! 


90  THE  SUN. 


THE  SUN. 

THOU  all-searching  lidless  eye  that  rolls 
In  heaven's  cyclopean  forehead,  fierce  and 

slow, 

Thou  fiery  heart  of  Time,  swung  to  and  fro 
In  heaven's  broad  breast,  each  throb  thou  givest 

doles 

A  day  of  earthly  life  to  human  souls  ! 
Out  of  thy  heart  what  living  issues  flow  ! 
Sealed  in  thy  beams  what  mighty  fiats  go 
To  quicken  Nature  to  her  mystic  goals  ! 
O  thought  of  God  flashed  into  Night's  dark  brain ; 
O  soul  of  Nature  !  is  there  anything 
So  clothed  with  majesty  in  her  domain? 
Aye,  mine  own  soul  with  mightier  wondering 
Doth  fill  my  being,  more  light  doth  contain, 
More  fearful,  wonderful,  than  thee  I  sing. 


A   STAR.  91 


A  STAR. 

WHITE  star  beating  in  the  hand  of  God  ! 
Like  some  great  human  heart  that  heaves 

and  glows, 

All  unbeholden  are  thy  starry  throes 
Amid  the  interstellar  spaces  broad, 
Except  by  him  whose  holy  feet  have  trod 
The  nadir  glooms  :  each  mighty  storm  that  blows 
Across  thy  fiery  brain,  but  overflows 
Thy  cheeks  in  calm  white  splendor  to  earth's  sod. 
Oh,  could  my  soul  thus  hide  in  God's  wide  palm, 
And  keep  its  fiery  tempests  for  His  eyes, 
Showing  the  world  a  face  as  bright  and  calm 
As  thine,  fair  orb,  secreting  in  the  skies 
Thine  awful  star-throbs  !     Could  I  let  the  light 
Which  comes  by  pain,  not  pain,  flash  through  the 
night ! 


92  LEGEND   OF  MINNEWAUKON. 


THE  LEGEND  OF   LAKE  MINNEWAUKON. 


to  the  bare  bold  forehead  of  the  cliff 
We  stood,  and  gazed  into  the  lake's  white 

breast. 

Its  pulse  was  still  ;  its  heart  was  full  of  stars. 
Grim,  round,  like  Nature's  nuns,  the  mountains  stood, 
Lifting  their  tree-crowned  foreheads  to  the  moon. 
We  heard  the  husky  voices  of  the  pines 
And  cedars  holding  converse  with  the  night. 
It  was  the  time  when  Nature's  cheek  was  red 
With  that  deep  hectic,  prophet  of  decay  ; 
And  there  were  ghostly  footfalls  on  the  turf. 
My  friend,  his  elbow  resting  on  a  rock, 
His  head  supported  by  his  open  palm, 
Watched  the  majestic  minuet  of  stars, 
And  told  me  the  traditions  of  the  lake,  — 
Lake  Minnewaukon,  which  the  people  say 
Means  "  Evil  Spirit  of  the  Waters."     Why, 
I  queried  of  my  friend,  so  weird  a  name 


LEGEND   OF  MINNEWAUKON.  93 

For  such  a  passionless  meek  lake  as  this  ? 

An  Indian  legend  ?    Yes,  a  foolish  tale 

About  the  young  loves  of  a  savage  maid. 

Let 's  have  the  tale  !     Are  we  not  thistle-down 

Blown  from  the  same  stalk  with  this  savage  tribe  ? 

What  force  of  muscle  or  of  heart  or  brain 

Have  we  that  did  not  dwell  somewhere  in  them, 

Though  as  the  pansy  slumbers  in  the  seed? 

The  human  heart,  though  changeful,  changes  not : 

It  is  to-day  the  same  warm  passionate  thing 

That  beat  in  time  with  God's  own,  on  that  first 

Still  glorious  Sabbath.     We  behold  it  thus, 

Refracted  through  six  thousand  years  of  time. 

Can  you  not  look  into  the  savage  heart, 

And  see  the  lines  of  light  from  your  own  self 

Gathered  into  an  image  of  yourself, 

As  yon  moon  leans  her  cheek  above  the  lake, 

And  sees  herself  repeated,  no  less  fair  ? 

When  Time's  long  fingers,  reaching  through  himself 

Backward  unto  our  darker  day,  shall  feel 

About  our  hearts,  and  measure  the  extremes 

Of  heat  and  cold,  the  altitudes  of  love, 

The  lengths  and  breadths  of  passionate  desire, 

Men  shall  declare  that  we  were  like  to  them, 


94  LEGEND   OF  MINNEWAUKON. 

Save  as  the  broad  sun  of  experience, 

By  climbing  higher  in  the  arch  of  life, 

Has  brought  out  points  of  beauty  and  of  truth 

Which  were  by  us  foredreamed  but  not  foreknown. 

One  great  heart  which  is  God's,  to  which  our  own 

Are  as  the  dew-drops  to  the  great  round  sea, 

But  by  love's  cordon  all  divinely  marked 

As  parts  of  one  great  whole.     We  are  all  brutes, 

With  something  of  the  angel  with  us  blent,  — 

All  angels,  mixed  with  somewhat  of  the  brute. 

He  is  most  brute  who  loveth  least,  and  he 

Most  God-like  who  loves  most ;  for  God  is  love. 

Let 's  have  the  legend,  while  yon  golden  stars 

Glitter  like  fragments  of  a  shattered  sun. 

Here  is  the  tale  much  as  he  told  it  me  : 

See  yonder  cliff  uprear  its  naked  breast 

Straight  from  the  water  toward  the  tender  moon  ! 

There,  says  the  legend,  stood  a  stern  old  chief, 

And   spoke   the   arrowy  words   which    smote    his 

child,  — 

Monona,  graceful  as  the  leaping  fawn, 
Monona,  timorous  as  the  forest  bird, 
Monona,  lovely  as  the  evening  star. 
She  stood  there,  lost  in  her  long  shadowy  locks ; 


LEGEND   OF  MINNEWAUKON.  95 

And  there,  too,  stood  her  lovers.    One  was  white,  — 

A  stranger  who  had  chanced  into  the  tribe. 

The  other  was  a  stalwart  Indian  brave, 

Who  stood  as  straight  and  strong  as  the  tall  pine 

'Gainst  which  he  leaned,  while  through  the  dark  his 

eyes 
Glittered    like   some  fierce  panther's.      Spoke  the 

maid, 

And  lightly  dropped  her  words  as  sunset  dew, 
And  with  a  sound  as  sweet  as  laughing  streams 
Which  skip  amid  the  rocks  in  rainbow  glee  : 
"  My  father,  let  Monona  have  her  way, 
And  for  a  husband  choose  what  one  she  will ; 
Or  else  her  heart  will  burn,  and  burn,  and  burn, 
Until  it  burns  to  ashes  in  her  breast. 
I  love  him  best  who  hath  the  luminous  face  : 
He  came  upon  me  like  the  morning  sun, 
And  drew  me  to  him  like  the  morning  mist. 
Mine  eyes  have  followed  him  across  the  lake, 
And  seen  him  leap  like  light  amid  the  crags, 
Till  in  me  burns  my  heart  as  't  were  a  star 
Slipped  out  of  heaven  and  lodged  within  my  breast. 
My  father,  let  Monona  have  her  way, 
Or  she  will  die."     Then  spoke  the  grizzled  chief, 


96  LEGEND   OF  MINNEWAUKON. 

With  summer  lightning  leaping  in  his  eyes, 
With  summer  thunder  rumbling  in  his  voice, 
But  with  the  frost  of  winter  in  his  heart : 
"  Ye  two  have  wooed  the  maiden  long  enough, 
And  wrangled  over  her,  and  broke  the  peace 
Of  all  the  tribe ;  yon  calm  high-treading  moon, 
With  the  pale  brow,  this  night  shall  see  an  end. 
On  yonder  cliff  there  is  an  eagle's  nest ; 
And  he  who  first  shall  reach  it  and  bring  down 
An  eaglet,  and  present  it  to  the  maid, 
Shall  have  her  for  his  own."     The  while  he  spoke, 
About  his  gray  mouth  skulked  a  cunning  smile  ; 
For  inly  he  had  reasoned  :  "  Without  doubt 
The  red  man  will  be  swifter  on  his  feet." 
As  from  the  shivering  cord  the  arrow  leaps, 
Eager  to  reach  its  goal,  so  through  the  dark 
Each  lover  darted.     Fixed  the  maiden  stood, 
With  brow  leaned  forward,  till  the  last  faint  sound 
Of  rustling  footsteps  swooned  upon  the  air ; 
Then,  like  a  moonbeam  slipping  through  the  rocks, 
She  glided  downward  to  the  sandy  beach, 
Loosed  from  its  fastenings  her  birch  canoe, 
And  like  a  moonbeam  slipped  across  the  lake 
Here  at  the  foot  of  this  steep  cliff  she  paused, 


LEGEND   OF  MINNEWAUKON.  97 

And  dumbly  waited.    How  they  leaped  and  climbed  ! 

Now  one  and  now  the  other  gained  a  pace. 

Love  maketh  wings  for  feet  and  nerves  for  hands, 

And  he  who  loves  most  truly  is  most  strong. 

The  pale-browed  stranger  gained  the  eagle's  nest, 

And  waved  his  fluttering  prize  above  the  cliff. 

Across  the  red  man's  lips  a  cry  of  rage 

Broke  when  he  saw  the  triumph  of  his  foe. 

He  twined  his  lusty  arms  about  the  waist 

Of  his  pale  rival,  hurled  him  headlong  down, 

To  break  his  life  upon  the  merciless  rocks, 

And  stain  the  still,  white  water  with  his  blood. 

Then  from  the  eagle's  nest  the  Indian  seized 

A  second  eaglet  like  unto  the  first, 

And  carried  it  in  triumph  toward  the  maid. 

But  she  raised  not  her  eyelids,  breathed  no  word. 

Flinging  her  black  locks  backward  to  the  night, 

She  stretched  her  bare  arms  toward  the  tremulous 

moon 

Which  swam  beneath  the  waves ;  without  a  sigh, 
She  leaped  into  the  lake,  and  sank  from  sight. 
The  legend  does  not  say  what  cry  arose, 
Of  tender  sorrow  or  of  vain  remorse, 
From  that  hard  father,  when  the  word  was  brought, 
7 


98  LEGEND   OF  MINNEWAUKON. 

Or  how  the  Indian  brave  wailed  his  lost  love ; 

But  there  was  not  a  sigh  save  heaven's  breath, 

And  not  a  tear  save  the  cold  tears  of  night, 

When  through  the  pearly  fingers  of  the  dawn 

The  first  red  sunbeam  slipped  adown  the  world. 

Now,  when  sad  Nature's  forehead  flushes  flame, 

Ere  in  her  gelid  veins  the  warm  life  sleeps, 

When  everywhere  in  her  domain  is  seen 

The  garish  mocking  pageantry  of  death, 

With  the  white  moon,  in  dewy  deeps  of  night, 

The  spirit  of  the  Indian  maiden  steals 

Out  of  the  lake,  and  lonely  seeks  the  shore. 

She  wanders  wearily  amid  the  rocks, 

And  tosses  her  dark  arms,  and  weeps  and  sighs, 

Till  all  the  night  is  voiceful  and  astir, 

And  all  the  lake  is  restless  and  afoam. 

This  is  the  legend  which  the  people  tell. 

Even  in  those  days,  when  man's  hand  was  pure 

From  fondling  oft  a  hoard  of  darling  gold, 

Before  his  heart  grew  timid,  and  his  sense 

Drunk  with  the  blood  of  poppies  and  of  grapes, 

He  could  not  hold  from  breaking  Nature's  laws, 

If  thereby  he  might  gain  a  single  point. 

Time  may  stride  on  down  his  pre-measured  track, 


LEGEND   OF  MINNEWAUKON.  99 

Our  little  planet  gambol  'round  the  sun, 

But  human  nature  will  be  human  still, 

As  it  was  in  the  orient  of  time, 

Until  the  godhood  in  it  reaches  bloom, 

By  that  divine  antholysis  of  soul, 

That  awful  mystery  of  Life  called  Death. 


100  NOTHING  NEW. 


NOTHING  NEW. 

"XTOW  rock  me  gently,  Mother  Earth, 

That  I  may  sleep  with  this  dead  year 
On  whom  drops  many  a  frozen  tear 
From  Night's  cold  cheek.     Of  little  worth 

I  count  the  year  that  is  to  be ; 
I  'm  weary  of  the  constant  moon 
Whose  path  with  flakes  of  fire  is  strewn, 

Her  deathless  passion  for  the  sea. 

No  new  tides  thunder  at  their  bars ; 

There  is  no  quickening  in  the  sun  ; 

Men  scan  the  track  which  he  must  run, 
And  count  the  footsteps  of  the  stars. 

With  iron  laws  they  chain  all  things 
From  sea  to  sun,  from  earth  to  star ; 
They  hear  the  whirlwind  pant  afar, 

And  point  the  circuit  of  its  wings. 


NOTHING  NEW.  IOI 

Oh,  rock  me  forward  toward  the  dawn  ! 

She  cometh,  blushing  faint  and  far,  — 

Within  her  forehead  a  white  star, 
The  glad  young  year  her  breast  upon. 

But  wake  me  not.     What  profits  it 
To  grind  one's  soul  against  Life's  wheel, 
To  pant  and  strain,  and  still  to  feel 

There  's  wrought  no  lasting  benefit  ? 

All  that  my  fervent  soul  to-day 

Unto  the  shrine  of  beauty  brings 

Is  but  an  echo  of  past  things, 
And  echo-like  shall  die  away. 

What  has  been,  is ;  what  is,  shall  be. 

0  cyclic  track  on  which  we  run  ! 

1  'm  dizzy,  circling  round  the  sun 
'Twixt  eve  and  dawning  ceaselessly. 

Then  rock  me  gently ;  let  me  rest ! 
I  would  not  see  this  babe  of  Time 
With  prophet  brows  and  eyes  sublime  ; 

The  Old  Year's  heart  beats  in  its  breast. 


102  NOTHING  NEW. 

A  hand  has  pushed  us  toward  the  sun ; 
The  infant  year  doth  stretch  his  arms, 
And  woo  me  with  his  rosy  charms  : 

What  spell  is  on  me  ?  I  am  won  ! 

Mysterious  passion  that  doth  thrill 

'Twixt  time  and  mortals  !  though  we  try 
To  shun  the  wizard  in  his  eye, 

We  cleave  to  him  against  our  will. 


MY  SOUL.  103 


MY  SOUL. 

TNTO  the  shadow  of  the  throne  of  God, 

My  infant  soul,  thou  darest  creep,  and  hold 
Thy  weakling  palms  out,  out,  to  touch  a  fold 
Of  his  sun-broidered  toga,  floating  broad. 
Thou  smilest  at  the  far  gleam  of  white  wings, 
Like   last  night's   dream,  such   faint  and   filmy 

things, 
At  crystal  heights  by  glimmering  feet  down-trod. 

Thou  laughest,  infant  soul,  in  mad  delight 

When,  faint  and  sweet,  vibrating  to  thine  ears, 
Sliding  adown  the  gamut  of  the  spheres, 

A  silver  note  comes  singing  through  the  night, 
Astray  from  tune-drenched  cithern  angel-swept, 
As  from  an  angel  heart  a  pulse  had  leapt, 

Vibrant  with  music  down  some  heavenly  height. 


104  MY  SOUL. 

Thou  tremblest  in  me,  O  my  infant  soul, 
Feeling  the  organ-thunder  of  the  spheres, 
Time's  stern  heart  beating  off  the  rhythmic  years, 

The  harmonies  that  sweep  and  swell  and  roll 
Through  avenues  of  sense  up  to  the  brain ; 
The  glories  so  intense  they  break  with  pain 

On  angel  eyes  and  brow  and  aureole. 

Oh,  how  thou  prattlest  of  God's  truth  and  God, 

As  infant  of  far  organ  swells  and  swounds  ! 

Oh,  how  thou  babblest  of  celestial  sounds, 
Of  God's  right  arm,  as  of  a  lictor's  rod  ! 

How  strainest  for  high  things  through  sentient 
bars, 

As  cooing  babes  reach  toward  the  influent  stars, 
As  for  bright  lilies  set  in  waves,  blue,  broad  ! 

How  shalt  thou  grow  more  virile,  keeping  white 
Thy  forehead  from  deep  blushes  born  of  shame 
That  creep  from  throat  up  in  a  scarlet  flame 

To  tresses'  marge?    How  comprehend  the  light, 
The  high  harmonics  that  do  sweep  and  change 
Throughout  creation's  vibratory  range, 

From  star-white  rim  to  rim,  world  depth,  sun  height  ? 


MY  SOUL.  105 

Thou  shalt  grow  strong  but  through  thy  daily  drill 
In  pain  of  soul  and  anguishing  of  breath ; 
Leashed  unto  sorrow,  fraternized  with  death, 

Thou  shalt  with  such  force  throttle  thine  own  will 
As  shakes  the  thoughts  of  angels  to  their  deeps, 
And  lifts  thee  up  on  Sorrow's  blessed  steeps, 

Where  drop  the  dews  of  God's  truth,  pure  and  still. 

Aye,  thou  must  feel  Sin's  crimson-bladed  knife ; 

Learn  love  and  suffering  are  of  twin  birth ; 

Must  feel  hell  thunder  'neath  the  rocking  earth ; 
The  awful  silences  that  come  in  life, 

As  if  God's  mighty  heart  had  ceased  to  beat, 

And  all  the  universe,  hushed  at  his  feet, 
Lay  breathless,  waiting  for  his  pulses'  strife ; 

Must  lie  face  down,  and  learn  how  small  thou  art ; 

Lo  !  all  the  fiery  brains  that  light  the  world 

Burn  but  through  knowing  what  truths  still  lie  furled, 
Through  knowing  what  they  know  not.  Learn  thy 
part, 

Thy  thoughts'  puerility,  thy  days'  small  length  ; 

To  know  thy  weakness, —  therein  lies  thy  strength ; 
To  know  thy  foolishness  makes  wise  thy  heart. 


106  MY  SOUL. 

Though  I  should  lie  in  some  black  well  of  shame, 
And  listen  to  the  sunward-soaring  lark 
Dropping  his  dew-pure  notes  into  my  dark ; 

O'er  my  soul's  forehead  though  the  martyr  flame 
Creep  hotly  like  a  white  and  angry  hand, 
With   soundless   touch  that  leaves    a   deathless 
brand,  — 

Still  shall  my  shrinking  spirit  cry  the  same  : 

Purge  me,  O  God,  until  I  seem  Christ-pure ; 

Smite  me,  till  from  my  soul  truth  leaps  like  fire ; 

Hew  me  with  the  bright  blade  of  thy  desire, 
Till  fair  as  polished  marbles  that  endure ; 

Strike,  though  the  scarlet  drops  ooze  and  drip  down ; 

Chisel  my  forehead  till  it  fit  a  crown 
Of  civic  honor  in  Truth's  state  secure. 

So  shall  I  stand  midway  'twixt  earth  and  heaven, 
One  hand  upon  the  equal  pulse  of  Time, 
Feeling  the  human  heart  in  throes  sublime 

Of  rapture,  or  by  grief  and  passion  riven  ; 
The  other  hand  in  God's  dear  bosom  thrust, 
Whose  broad  palm  curves  about  all  human  dust ; 

Thus  make  a  circuit  between  earth  and  heaven. 


MY  SOUL.  107 

The  human  will  hard  straining  from  God's  will, 
The  music  of  tears  as  they  drop  and  flow, 
The  sweets  of  pain,  —  all  these  may  come,  and  so 

Linked  unto  heavenly  sweetness,  through  me  thrill 
In  blessed  harmony ;  so  shall  I  be 
A  conduit  pure  of  heavenly  verity, 

And  much  seem  good  which  hath  before  seemed  ill. 


108  LET  HIM  SLEEP. 


LET  HIM  SLEEP. 

,  do  not  wake  the  little  one, 
With  that  long  curl  across  his  face, 
Like  strands  of  light  dropped  from  the  sun, 
And  twisted  there  in  golden  grace  ! 
Oh,  tell  him  not  the  moments  run 
Through  life's  frail  ringers  in  swift  chase  ! 
Let  him  sleep,  let  him  sleep  ! 

Cometh  a  day  when  light  is  pain, 
When  he  will  lean  his  head  away, 
And  sunward  hold  his  palm,  to  gain 
A  respite  from  the  glare  of  day  ; 
For  no  fond  lip  will  smile,  and  say, 
"  Let  him  sleep,  let  him  sleep  !  " 

Oh,  hush  !  oh,  hush  !  wake  not  the  child  ! 
Just  now  a  light  shone  from  within, 
And  through  his  lips  an  angel  smiled, 


LET  HIM  SLEEP.  109 

Too  late  from  heaven  for  grief  to  win ; 
Oh,  children  are  God's  undented, 
Too  late  from  heaven  to  dream  of  sin  ! 
Let  him  sleep,  let  him  sleep  ! 


HO  WORSE  THAN  DEAD. 


WORSE  THAN   DEAD. 

T    CANNOT  shut  my  eyes  for  tears ; 

I  cannot  see  yon  high  hill  loom 
Its  purple  forehead  through  the  gloom ; 
I  see  naught  but  the  blood-stained  years. 

Dead,  —  he  for  whom  my  heart  has  bled 
Its  warm  life  on  the  years'  bright  sheaves 
As  poppy  stains  its  folded  leaves  ? 

Not  dead,  not  dead,  but  worse  than  dead  ! 

Dead  to  all  sense  of  truth  and  right,  — 
Him  I  deemed  worthiest  of  all, 
Too  wise  to  stray,  too  strong  to  fall : 

Dead,  dead,  yet  never  out  of  sight ! 

I  deem  it  sweeter  far  to  kneel 
Beside  the  grave  of  one  beloved, 
And  softly  say,  "  How  true  he  proved  !  " 

Than  to  inclose  his  palm,  and  feel 


WORSE    THAN  DEAD.  1 1 1 

The  heart  that  warms  it  is  unjust, 

Has  proved  unworthy  your  heart's  best, 
False  to  the  high  faith  it  professed, 

With  perfidy  has  answered  trust. 

Like  silver  drip  of  dropping  eves 

In  pauses  of  the  summer  rain, 

Amid  the  hushes  of  my  pain, 
His  old  sweet  words  fall ;  and  it  grieves 

My  soul  to  hear  them,  — which  but  proves 

The  memory  of  loving  ways 

Makes  cruel  ones  in  after  days, 
More  bitter  to  the  heart  that  loves. 

The  cold  world  must  not  be  aware  ; 
I  '11  cover  with  a  glare  of  words, 
Like  gorgeous  plumes  on  songless  birds, 

My  dead  trust,  that  it  still  seem  fair. 

I  see  upon  the  dim  blue  marge 
Of  yon  wide  waveless  sea  o'erhead, 
Where  all  the  wandering  winds  are  dead, 

A  white  star  like  a  silver  barge. 


112  WORSE    THAW  DEAD. 

Shine  softly,  star,  upon  my  bed  ! 

Perhaps  some  soul  in  thy  white  heart 
Murmurs  to-night,  while  hot  tears  start : 

"  Not  dead,  not  dead,  but  worse  than  dead  !  " 

It  may  be  that  deceit  and  shame 
Are  not  chained  to  our  little  world, 
That  in  yon  starry  depths  enfurled 

They  touch  white  foreheads  into  flame. 

Come,  O  my  soul !  We  '11  turn  our  face 
From  this  dark  grief  with  tresses  wild ; 
For  she  is  but  a  gipsy  child 

That  hath  no  constant  biding-place. 

Farewell,  dead  friend  !     The  cold  word 's  said 
Still  I  behold  thee  through  my  tears ; 
I  feel  the  eyes  of  other  years 

Upon  my  soul,  —  worse,  worse  than  dead  ! 


MY  ANGEL  AND  I.  113 


MY  ANGEL  AND   I. 

A  N  angel  was  born  in  the  soul  of  my  soul ; 
•*          His  forehead  shone  like  a  lucent  gem 
In  its  setting  of  golden  hair ; 
I  felt  his  angelic  pulses  roll ; 
Like  the  floor  of  the  new  Jerusalem, 
His  bosom  was  white  and  fair. 

I  said,  "  My  angel,  my  youth's  ideal, 

I  will  hold  to  you,  though  men  call  you  unreal !  " 

The  world  said,  "  Let  go  ! " 
But  I  answered,  "  No  !  " 

My  life,  when  cast  on  his  glistening  breast, 
Broke  into  rainbow  hues,  whose  glow 
Was  marvellous  to  behold,  — 
Like  a  sunbeam  drawn  from  its  golden  rest, 
And  dashed  on  a  prism,  and  shattered  so 
Into  violet,  red,  and  gold. 
8 


114  MY  ANGEL  AND  I. 

Men  said,  "  A  dream,  a  fantasy  wild, 

Has  ravished  his  soul  and  his  reason  beguiled." 

The  world  said,  "  Let  go  ! " 
But  I  answered,  "  No  ! " 

We  slipped  —  my  angel  and  I  —  and  fell ; 
The  star-beams  blazed  from  his  jostled  crown  ; 
Down,  down,  —  O  Heaven,  how  low 
We  slipped  together  in  that  dark  well ! 
The  world,  passing  by,  looked  solemnly  down 
With  its  wise  "  I  told  you  so  !  " 

My  angel's  robe  looked  draggled  and  torn ; 
But  I  clung  to  him,  spite  of  human  scorn. 

The  world  said,  "  Let  go  ! " 
But  I  answered,  "  No  !  " 

A  jar,  a  crash  !    Did  a  thunderbolt  fall 

From  the  throne  of  God  with  a  lightning  pace, 

And  strike  the  Earth  to  her  heart  ? 

My  angel  reeled  from  his  castle  wall, 

And  fold  over  fold  clouds  muffled  his  face, 

Forcing  us  wide  apart. 


MY  ANGEL  AND  /.  1 15 

I  clung  to  his  white  robe  with  a  grip 

Too  strong  with  the  strength  of  despair  to  slip. 

The  world  said,  "  Let  go  !  " 
But  I  answered,  "  No  !  " 

We  swept  through  strange  darks  together  so  ; 
Clouds  big  with  thunder  about  us  crashed, 
And  the  lightning  shook  its  wings  ; 
Through  all  the  blackness  and  lurid  glow 
God's  face  —  though  I  did  not  know  it  —  flashed, 
And  his  hand  kept  the  balance  of  things. 

My  angel,  my  angel,  I  clung  to  you  then, 
Despite  the  pitiless  gibes  of  men. 

The  world  said,  "  Let  go  !  " 
But  I  answered,  "  No  ! " 

Like  the  birth  of  a  star  from  God's  word  in  the 

night, 

The  Earth  flashed  out  of  the  storm,  all  clad 
In  the  fresh  robes  of  His  love ; 
We  stood  together  on  the  height,  — 


Il6  MY  ANGEL  AND  I. 

My  angel  and  I,  —  serene  and  glad, 
With  the  hush  of  stars  above. 

The  world  looked  up  with  sapient  eyes, 
And  said,  "  I  thought  so  ;  you  were  wise  !  " 

World,  shall  I  let  go? 

But  the  world  cried,  "  No  ! " 


THE   END. 


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